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North Carolina Poems 

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North Carolina Poems 






Professor of Education in Trinity College, Durham, N. C, 
and Editor of North Carolina Education 


published by 

North Carolina Education 

raleigh, n. c. 



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1.LD.N FOUND^Jp^L m2 By E c BR0QKS 



. .••. ••• *. • \ I C **$*&. MUTUAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
•• V: : . • *• W ••*••' * RALEIGH, N. C. 

• ••• • • • • 

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/ spread to-day my humble wares in view 
Of all who chance to journey past this way. 
With anxious heart and trembling hand I lay 

My handiwork before the false and true, 

And o'er and o'er arrange it all anew; 
For some will praise, now this, now that; some say 
That this were better left undone, while they, 

Who pass indifferently, will not be few. 

—Lucille Armfteld: Songs from the Carolina Hills 

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O queenly State! lift up thy fair, proud head, 
The while thy sons and daughters honor thee, 
And shine a pure white star, whose light shall be 
Undimmed through all the ages yet to come ! 

—Mrs. A. W. Curtis 


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If we have weal, if we have woe, 
If we have rights, if we have wrongs, 
The world must all our feelings know — 
We tell our stories in our songs. 

—James Chester Rockwell 


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North Carolina Education began in September, 1911, to 
publish a series of poems by North Carolina writers. The 
purpose was to reproduce for the teachers of North Caro- 
lina some of the best poetry written by North Carolinians. 
After running the selections in North Carolina Education 
for a year, it was decided to complete the list of poems as 
far as possible, and publish them in book form. We have 
made selections from the earliest collections of North 
Carolina verse, from newspapers, old text-books, and mag- 
azines. Two previous collections have been made; Mary 
Bayard Clarke's Wood Notes (two volumes), published in 
1854; and Rev. Hight C. Moore's Select Poetry of North 
Carolina, published in 1894. 

The principal purpose of this collection is to encourage 
the youth of the State to a more earnest and intelligent 
study of the literature of the State. For various reasons 
the students of our public schools and colleges know prac- 
tically nothing of our literature. Until recently one rare- 
ly heard of the study of a Southern author, to say nothing 
of a North Carolina author, in our grammar schools or 
high schools. But through the efforts of Professors Trent, 
Smith, Mims, Paine, Weber, Stockard, and Sledd, South- 
ern literature, including a few North Carolina selections, 
has found its way, though slowly, into the schools of the 

Since the announcement of the proposed publication of 
North Carolina Poems we have received numerous letters 
from many persons making suggestions as to the selection 
of authors and poems. These letters have been of much 
assistance in leading us to material that would probably 
have been overlooked. Moreover, it is quite probable that 
we have overlooked certain writers who deserve to be men- 
tioned in this collection. Many who once wrote entertain- 


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ingly are now almost in oblivion. Realizing this fact, we 
were led to give a biographical sketch of each author in 
order that the name may not entirely perish from the 

The poems are arranged alphabetically by authors and 
we have endeavored to give notes sufficient to make the 
poems clear. But so far as possible, we have purposely 
avoided giving foot-notes, preferring instead to give all 
necessary notes immediately under the subject of the 
poem. We do not claim supremacy for every author. 
But we do believe that the teacher will find poems of 
real merit in this volume and many others possessing local 
significance that will give pleasure to the reader. It is 
not intended that North Carolina Poems shall be made a 
regular text-book. But we do believe that every school 
should possess a few copies, and at the proper time the 
teacher should put the book in the hands of the pupil of 
about the sixth or the seventh grades, and teacher and 
pupil should read the poems together. With such use in 
view, the inclusion of love poems and dialect verse has 
been purposely avoided. 

We are indebted especially to Dr. Edwin Mims of the 
University of North Carolina and Professor W. H. Wanna- 
maker of Trinity College, for their assistance in selecting 
many of the poems and in reading the proof, and to Mr. 
Marshall DeLancey Haywood, of Ealeigh, for valuable 
aid in preparation of the biographical sketches. 

Durham, N. C, October 20, 1912. 

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Introduction 1 

John Henry Boner 

The Light'ood Fire o 

Hunting Muscadines 6 

The Wanderer Back Home 7 

The Wolf 8 

The Moon-Loved Land 9 

Poe's Cottage at Fordham 10 

Herbert Hutchinson Brimley 

The Mammoth 12 

'Tis Springtime in the Woodlands 14 

The Royal Terns of Royal Shoal 16 

Baylus Cade 

Waiting 18 

A Jolly Old Man 20 

Mary Bayard Clarke 

Lines to the Old North State 23 

Racing Water 26 

Nixon Poindexter Clingman 

In Memoriam 28 

Sallie O'H. Dickson 

A Greeting to Grandfather Mountain 32 

Dp We Forget? 33 

A Prayer 34 

Plato Tracy Durham 

The Bells of Trinity 35 

The Dream of Lee and Lincoln . 36 

North Carolina to Charles Brantley Aycock 37 

The Garden of Death 38 

H. S. Ellenwood 

Marriage of the Sun and Moon 39 

Edwin Wiley Fuller 

Under the Pines 41 

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Lines to the Ladies' Memorial Association of Wil- 
mington 42 

The Sunflower 43 

The Bells of Heaven 44 

Alexander F. Gaston 

The Volunteers 45 

William Gaston 

The Old North State 46 

Pattie Williams Gee 

Mater Mea, Carolina 48 

God's Love 51 

Joseph H. Gillespie 

Stanzas 52 

The "Valley and Shadow" 53 

Chancellorsville 54 

Charles Luther Greaves 

To a Snow-Bird. 56 

Minstrels of the Pasquotank 57 

The Shout of a King 58 

William Bernard Harrell 

Ho! For Carolina! 60 

Thomas Watts Harrington 

Carolina, Our Pride 62 

The Gander 65 

To a Wood Lark 67 

To a Mocking Bird 68 

Marshall DeLancey Haywood 

The Flint-Lock Rifle 69 

Blackboard the Corsair 72 

Zebulon Baird Vance 75 

Theophilns Hunter Hill 

Song of the Butterfly 76 

The Sunbeam / • • • ? 8 

The Star Above the Manger . . . 79 

Joseph William Holden 

Hatteras 82 

Emma A. Lehman 

Queen Flora's Opening Day 86 

The Snow 88 

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Marie Batterham Lindesay 

Song 89 

Peace 90 

Johnny's Story 91 

What is Worth While? 91 

Samuel Harley Lyle, Jr. 

A Song of Autumn 92 

Morn and Eve 92 

The Song of the Buccaneer 93 

Where Fairies Play 94 

A Song of the Road 95 

Life's Victors 96 

John Charles McNeill 

Away Down Home 98 

M. W. Ransom 99 

October 100 

Sunburnt Boys 101 

The Open Fire 102 

At Sea 103 

Abraham Forest Morehead 

The HillB of Dan 104 

The Genius of Dan 105 

James Chester Rockwell 

Night 108 

He Came and Went 109 

The Poet's Story 109 

She is My Queen 110 

James Diddle Shepard 

The Pilot Ill 

Roanoke 113 

Benjamin Sledd 

The Children 115 

The Mystery of the Woods 116 

United 117 

The Vision of the Milk-White Doe 118 

The Wraith of Roanoke 119 

Hersey Everett Spence 

A Christmas Prayer 120 

Beauty or Power 121 

Paper-Folks 122 

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Cornelia Phillips Spencer 

Biographical Sketch 125 

The niverBity's Centennial 126 

Indian Names 127 

Henry Jerome Stockard 

The Last Charge at Appomattox 129 

In the Lighthouse at Point Lookout, North Caro* 

Una 131 

The Eagle 131 

A Christmas Memory 132 

Washington 133 

Sir Walter Raleigh 133 

Robert Strange 

The Music of the Heart 136 

Earth's Lullaby to Her Children 137 

Frances Christine Fisher Tiernan 

Biographical Sketch 138 

The Alabama 139 

Regret 141 


Swannanoa 143 

Robert Brank Vance 

Biographical Sketch 146 

Dr. Mitchell's Grave 147 

The Mountain Cross 148 

Georgia Mordecai Whiting 

Warrior, Sleep! 150 

Seymour Webster Whiting 

Alamance 151 

Song of Spring 152 

Sue M. Whitaker 

Finis 154 

Index 157 

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"The history of literature in North Carolina/' says Dr. 
C. Alphonso Smith,* "has never been written, but enough 
is known to warrant the historian in calling attention to 
our native writers as interpreters and moulders of our 

history I have reference chiefly to North Carolina 

writers who have found their inspiration in their native 
soil, writers who have celebrated the scenery or perpetu- 
ated the traditions of their own States. Such writers are 

history makers and history interpreters, and if 

the pupil learns nothing more than that literature has 
from the beginning been the conservator and herald of 
history, he will have learned a truth that will minister to 
him as long as he lives. ' ' 

The purpose of this volume of poetry is to give the 
schools of North Carolina an opportunity to study "North 
Carolina writers who have found their inspiration in 
their native soil, writers who have celebrated the scenery 
or perpetuated the traditions of their own States.' ' The 
greatest of these have lived and wrought almost within 
this generation. However, their names are rarely heard 
in the school-room and their production is seldom read 
even by the teachers of the State. 

To the practical man of to-day the writer of poems or 
essays or novels may be of no significance a« compared 
with the farmer or the merchant or the manufacturer; 
and it is true that a nation is, as a rule, more practical 
than poetic. But the time has passed in the history of 
our country when the practical altogether predominates. 
No one man and no class of men has made, or is making, 
the fabric of Statehood. It is a collective and composite 

♦In an address delivered before the State Literary and His- 
torical Association November, 1911. 

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thing on which many brains have pondered and many 
hands have wrought. And out of this realization there 
would come that new conception of the State, a conception 
which has kindled alike the imagination of the past and 
the patriotism of the citizen. This truth all teachers espe- 
cially should appreciate. North Carolina literature will 
never flourish until more interest is taken in literature by 
the people. 

M. Taine says in the introduction to his History of Eng- 
lish Literature: "There are few nations which through- 
out their existence have thought and written in the full 
sense of the word." Certainly North Carolina, and even 
America, does not belong to this chosen few. Only a stray 
poem here and there produced before the Civil War by 
North Carolina writers has come down to us. But one of 
these, "The Old North State," by Judge Gaston, is the 
best known State song in America. Ellenwood's "Mar- 
riage of the Sun and Moon" belongs to the first quarter 
of the nineteenth century, but the author has been forgot- 
ten. Nevertheless this poem has probably had a wider 
circulation than any other North Carolina poem. Prob- 
ably the most famous antebellum poem is Whiting's 
"Alamance," which has been preserved to American liter- 
ature by Burton Egbert Stevenson in his Poems of Ameri- 
can History. 

The Civil War changed old customs, produced new emo- 
tions, and turned the currents of thought into other chan- 
nels, and there has arisen in the State, as well as in the 
South, a group of writers who have found a real inspira- 
tion in their native soil. We do not claim supremacy for 
every local writer, nor do we claim that every selection 
reproduced in this volume, will live forever. But we do 
believe that to select the representative writers of either 
prose or poetry, to portray the salient features of their 
life and work, to relate them properly to the varied activ- 
ities of the State and to the ideals and interests of the 
pupils in our school, will deepen and diversify the interest 
of both pupil and teacher in the richer life of the State. 

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However, even the best of our North Carolina literature 
rarely finds a way into the schools of the State. But we 
do believe that every school can use many of these poems 
in connection with history, geography or literature with 
decided profit. For example, when the history of the first 
attempt of the English to settle America is being studied, 
Holden's "Hatteras," Stockard's "In the Lighthouse at 
Lookout,' ' and "Sir Walter Raleigh," and Sledd's "The 
Vision of the Milk-White Doe" should be read. A live 
teacher can interest pupils in these selections and give 
real life and meaning to what is sometimes very uninter- 
esting history. 

When the students are studying the Revolutionary pe- 
riod, Haywood's "The Plint-Lock Rifle," Stockard's 
"Washington," Whiting's "Alamance," and Clarke's 
"Lines to the Old North State" will have special inter- 
est. Moreover, when the pupils are studying the Civil 
War period, the teacher will find the following se- 
lections to be very appropriate for parallel reading: 
"Durham's "The Dream of Lee and Lincoln," Fuller's 
"Under the Pines" and "The Sunflower," Gee's "Mater, 
Mea Carolina," Gillespie's " Chancellorsville, " Sledd's 
4 * United, ' ' Stockard 's ' * The Last Charge at Appomattox, ' ' 
and Tiernan's "The Alabama." 

There are other writers who have found their inspira- 
tion in the soil and streams and mountains of North Caro- 
lina, and they have produced a literature suitable to be 
read in connection with North Carolina geography. Such 
as Boner's "Hunting Muscadines" (on the Yadkin), 
Brimley's "Mammoth," Dickson's "Greeting to Grand- 
father Mountain," Mrs. Clarke's "Racing Water" (the 
French Broad), "Swannanoa," Holden's "Hatteras," Mc- 
Neill's "At Sea" and "Sunburnt Boys" (on Lumber 
River), Morehead's "The Hills of Dan," Shepard's "The 
Pilot" and "Roanoke," Spencer's "Indian Names," 
Stockard's "In the Lightouse at Point Lookout," and 
Vance's "Dr. Mitchell's Grave" and "The Mountain 

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In addition to these, there are poems lyric in their na- 
ture that express a sentiment well worth the study by 
persons more mature even than high school pupils. Such 
as Boner's "The Light- 'ood Fire" and "Poe's Cottage at 
Fordham," Durham's "North Carolina to Charles Brant- 
ley Aycock," Hill's "Song of the Butterfly,' ' McNeill's 
"Away Down Home" and "October," Sledd's "The Chil- 
dren," Stockard's "The Eagle," and Miss Whitaker's 

Emerson has finely said, speaking of the poet: "Wher- 
ever snow falls, or water flows, or birds fly, wherever day 
and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is 
hung by clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are outlets 
into celestial space, wherever is;danger, and awe, and love, 
there is beauty, plenteous as rain shed for thee." When- 
ever the teacher and the pupil and all lovers of literature 
have the trained senses to appreciate the spirit of poetry 
we may look forward to a time when writers shall make 
the mountains of Western North Carolina as sacred as 
those where William Tell wrought out his marvelous 
deeds ; where all the beauties of landscape shall be a back- 
ground for the feats of the hero; where the world may 
look to the people of this State as those who prize a poem 
as much as a factory, and a work of imagination more 
than many mills. 

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The Author. — John Henry Boner was born in Salem, 
N. C, in the year 1845. He learned the printer's trade and 
secured work in the United States Printing Office, Wash- 
ington, D. C. It was during these days that he published 
his first book of poems. The little volume was called 
" Whispering Pines.' ' His best verses were of the South, 
which he spoke of as "The Moon-loved Land." But of 
all places, his heart turned first to the beautiful little city 
in which he was born. 

Soon after he had published the volume of poems he 
lost his place in the United States Printing Office on ac- 
count of politics. This was in the days when the civil 
service law was not so widely extended. But his poems 
had brought him fame. Edmund Clarence Stedman, of 
New York, one of the foremost literary critics of the 
times, was delighted with Boner's poetry and secured 
work for him in New York. During the next few years 
he worked on several very important publications. Among 
them were two of the greatest dictionaries ever published 
— The Century Dictionary and The Standard Dictionary. 
He next became editor of one of the leading magazines 
in the United States — The Literary Digest. 

He was now recognized as a literary man of much 
force. But his health began to fail, and finally broke 
completely. He was still poor, and in order to get money 
for a trip back home he published another book of poems 
called "Some New Poems." He suffered greatly from 
pain and poverty. Death came to him in March, 1903, 
and he was buried at Salem. 


When wintry days are dark and drear 

And all the forest ways grow still, 
When gray snow-laden clouds appear 

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Along the bleak horizon hill, 
When cattle all are snugly penned 

And sheep go huddling close together, 
When steady streams of smoke ascend 

Prom farm-house chimneys— -in such weathe*. 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A great log-house, a great hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or briar 
And a red, leaping light 'ood fire. 

When dreary day draws to a close 

And all the silent land is dark, 
When Boreas down the chimney blows 

And sparks fly from the crackling bark, 
When limbs are bent with snow or sleet 

And owls hoot from the hollow tree, 
With hounds asleep about your feet, 
Then is the time for reverie. 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A hospitable wide hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or briar 
And a red, rousing light 'ood fire. 


(A Memory of Boyhood) 

Floating on the gentle Yadkin in an olden-time canoe. 
Singing old plantation ballads- — I and charming blue- 
eyed Sue — 

Blue-eyed, golden tress 'd Sue. 

Willows plume the shining river, and the birch a shadow 

Par across its dimpled bosom. Down the shore her laugh- 
ter rings — 

Merry, rippling laughter rings. 

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Pendent dew-drops glitter brightly in the overhanging 

Laden with a luscious treasure of large purple musca- 
dines — 

Ripe, delicious muscadines. 

Sweetest grapes that ever clustered — purple juice on 

mouth and breast — 
Pearly teeth and love and laughter! Fonder love was 

ne'er confessed — 

Sweeter lips were never pressed. 

Now we row from dappled shadows underneath the tan- 
gled vines 

Up the sunny stream where all the radiance of the morn- 
ing shines — 

the purple muscadines! 

Years may pass, but I can never cease to dream of blue- 
eyed Sue 
And the morning on the Yadkin in the olden-time canoe — 
Blue-eyed, golden tress 'd Sue. 


Back in the Old North State, 

Back to the place of his birth. 
Back through the pines' colonnaded gate 

To the dearest spot on earth. 
No sweeter joy can a star feel 

When into the sky it thrills 
Than the rapture that wings a Tar Heel 

Come back to his native hills. 

Prom coast to mountain heights 

Old North Carolina lies, 
A cornucopia of delights 

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Under her summer skies, 
And autumn gives rich treasure 

To the overflowing horn, 
Adding a juicy measure 

Of grape and rye and corn. 

In June a tree so fragrant 

Scents the delicious air 
That busiest bees grow vagrant 

And doze in its blossoms fair. 
" Persimmons !" the wanderer cries; 

And along time's frosted track 
The luscious purple fruit he spies, 
And boyhood's days drift back! 

With fall comes the burst of the cartridge ; 

The squirrel and the rabbit are his; 
Down tumbles the whirring partridge, 

And the cook makes the wild duck siz ; 
But for these not so much does he care, 

No matter how dainty the caters; 
Just seat him fair in an old splint chair 

And give him 'possum and 'taters. 


The wolf came sniffing at my door, 
But the wolf had prowled on my track before, 
And his sniff, sniff, sniff at my lodge door-sill 
Only made me laugh at his devilish will. 

I stirred my fire and read my book, 
And joyed my soul at my ingle-nook. 
His sniff and his snarl were always there 
But my heart was not the heart of a hare. 

I cursed the beast and drove him away, 
But he came with the fall of night each day, 

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And his sniff, sniff, sniff the whole night through 
I could hear between the winds that blew. 

And the time came when I laughed no more, 
But glanced with fear at my frail lodge door, 
For now I knew that the wolf at bay 
Sooner or later would have his way. 

The Pates were three, and I was one; 
About my life a net was spun ; 
My soul grew faint in the deadly snare, 
And the shrewd wolf knew my heart's despair. 

A crash, and my door flew open wide, 
My strength was not as the beast '& at my side. 
That night on my hearthstone cold and bare 
He licked his paw and made his lair. 


No lovelier song was ever heard 
Than the notes of the Southern mocking-bird 
When leaf and blossom are wet with dew 
And the wind breathes low the long night through. 
music for grief! It comes like a song 
Prom a voice in the stars ; and all night long 
The notes flow. But you must live in the South, 
Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth 
The land she loves, in the secret of night, 
To hear such music — the soul-delight 
Of the Moon-Loved Land. 

When gentle twilight softly closes 
The door of day, and the sun-fed roses 
Lavishly sweeten the air, you will hear 
That wonderful song — now low — now clear — 
Till the silvery moon flushed red goes down 

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On silent country and sleeping town. 
the lovers are fond in the groves of the South 
When the large moon kisses with grand sweet mouth 
The land she loves ; and love has romance 
And is more than vow and wedding and dance 
In the Moon-Loved Land. 


Note. — Fordham was formerly a village of Westchester 
County, New York, but is now a part of New York City. Here 
Edgar Allen Poe lived from 1846 to 1849, and the cottage in 
which he lived and wrote several of his poems is now preserved 
as a Poe memorial. 

Here lived the soul enchanted 

By melody of song ; 
Here dwelt the spirit haunted 

By a demoniac throng; 
Here sang the lips elated; 
Here grief and death were sated; 
Here loved and here unmated 

Was he, so frail, so strong. 

Here wintry winds and cheerless 

The dying firelight blew 
While he whose song was peerless 

Dreamed the drear midnight through, 
And from dull embers chilling 
Crept shadows darkly filling 
The silent place, and thrilling 

His fancy as they grew. 

Here, with brow bared to heaven, 

In starry night he stood, 
With the lost star of seven 

Peeling sad brotherhood. 
Here in the sobbing showers 
Of dark autumnal hours 

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He heard suspected powers 

Shriek through the stormy wood. 

From visions of Apollo 

And of Astarte 's bliss, 
He gazed into the hollow 

And hopeless vale of Dis; 
And though earth w6re surrounded 
By heaven, it still was mounded 
With graves. His soul had sounded 

The dolorous abyss. 

Proud, mad, but not defiant, 

He touched at heaven and hell. 
Fate found a rare soul pliant 

And rung her changes well. 

Alternately his lyre, 
Stranded with strings of fire, 
Led earth's most happy choir 

Or flashed with Israfel. 

No singer of old story 

Luting accustomed lays, 
No harper for new glory, 

No mendicant for praise, 
He struck high chords and splendid, 
Wherein were fiercely blended 
Tones that unfinished ended 

With his unfinished days. 

Here through this lowly portal, 

Made sacred by his name, 
Unheralded immortal 

The mortal went and came. 
And fate that then denied him, 
And envy that decried him, 
And malice that belied him, 

Have cenotaphed his fame. 

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The Author, — Herbert Hutchinson Brimley, a native of 
England, moved to North Carolina in 1880. A nature stu- 
dent by choice and training, he was appointed to the cura- 
torship of the State Museum in the spring of 1895 and has 
held that position ever since with increasing reputation 
and usefulness. His songs have grown out of his work. 


Note. — The recent (fall of 1909) bringing to light of Mam- 
moth bones by the suction dredge Potomac, operating on the 
Adams Creek section of the Inland Waterway, calls attention to 
the fact that both the Mammoth and the Mastodon, huge pre- 
historic elephants, formerly ranged through the coastal plains 
of eastern North Carolina. 

From the depths of the peat of the swamp-fed creek, 

Where the great dredge eats its way, 
There were brought some bones of the Mammoth vast 

To the light of a modern day : 

From the place where the huge beast found his rest, 
In the days when the world was young, 

Ere the First Man's track in the mud was made, 
Or his spear to the winds was flung : 

When the hairy brute, of a strength untold, 
Roamed alone through the swamps and reeds ; 

Razed the cane-breaks dense, tramped the gall-bush 
In the place where the bear now feeds. 

When his long trunk rose in the quivering air, 
And his tusks 'neath the moon gleamed white, 


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And his trumpet call through the woodlands rang 
In the hush of the cool swamp night. 

And an answering call to his war cry bold 
Through the aisles of the wood rang shrill — 

'Twas the battle cry of the Mastodon, 
From the place where he drank his fill. 

Fierce rivals, these, for the Woodland's Rule — 
And they fought ere the night was done: 

And a deep, dark pool in the cypress swamp 
Made a grave for the vanquished one. 

Like great freight trains, on a down-hill grade, 

With the weights piled ton on ton, 
Came the Mammoth vast, in his charging rush — 

Came the mighty Mastodon. 

And they met with a crash that the swamp-lands shook — 

And the wood-folk cowered in awe; 
They met like ships in a head-on clash 

In their fight 'neath the Woodland Law. 

And the trees went down in the conflict fierce, 

And the ground was plowed and raw ; 
For they fought a fight where to lose meant death — 

And the thick reeds gave like straw. 

Then the wound-forced screams of the huge mad beasts 
Through the swamp mists rose and fell, 

With their notes of rage and their notes of fear 
Like the screams of the fiends in Hell. 

And their tusks gored deep and their wounds gaped 
And the spouting blood ran free, 

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Till their strength was gone, and their lives ebbed fast 
As they still fought, knee to knee. 

Till the vanquished died — and the victor too — 
And their forms in the pool sank deep, 

To be peat- wrapped there — till the great dredge brought 
Their remains from their last long sleep. 


'Tis Springtime in the woodlands and the trees are bud- 
ding out 

In green of varied shadings, and the Winter's put to rout : 

The sweet, keen scents of Nature are abroad upon the air ; 

The birds are singing softly and the earth is bright and 

The Pines upon the hillside, they are dropping last year's 
leaves ; 

The sunlight glancing through them on the ground a pat- 
tern weaves: 

The odor of the pine sap sets the nerves athrill like wine 

And from the bark is oozing fresh the healing turpentine. 

The Oaks are budding slowly as if loth to start anew 
Another year of growing, with the bygone years in view ; 
They fear the soulless axeman when the Winter comes 

And all the trees are with them in their fear of vandal 


The Poplars are more forward than are many of the trees ; 
Their flowers and leaves are moving with the rustle of the 

breeze ; 
Their tall and tapering columns tower high above the rest ; 
They're beautiful and graceful, up from root to topmost 


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The Dogwood's snowy blossoms are a feature of the 

An inspiration, truly, to the man of gloomy moods : 
In Spring the lowly Dogwood puts the larger trees to 

And, beside it, other beauties of the forest seem but tame. 

The Maples show their colors best when Autumn comes 

Though all times they are lovely to the man whose judg- 
ment's sound: 

The Maple is a shade tree that's to man a noble boon, 

And grateful to the woodsman as the sun approaches noon. 

The Birches on the creek bank, they are budding like the 

Their trunks with bark all ragged and in white and yellow 

drest ; 
Their pole-trunks, tall and slender, are a-waving in the 

And odors from their flowing sap are ever sweet and kind. 

The Willows in the bottoms are a mass of shining green ; 
They're not much use for timber, as their trunks are short 

and lean: 
But many birds among them nest and from their branches 

The Willows in the bottoms are a glory in the Spring. 

'Tis Springtime in the woodlands, and the woods are all 

With mating birds, and bees collecting honey for the hive ; 
With flowing sap and blooming flowers and butterflies 

a-wing ; 
In Nature there is nothing fairer than the woods in Spring. 

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Note. — Royal Shoal Is a small shell island in Pamlico Sound, 
about ten miles northwest from Ocracoke. It belongs to the 
North Carolina Audubon Society and is famous for its colonies 
of nesting sea birds, the largest and handsomest of which is the 
Royal Tern. 

What are those airy forms a-flitting 

Over the summer sea? 
What is that low, dark line a-sitting 

Off there under our lee? 
What are those distant noises humming 

Out of the vibrant air? 
What is the place to which we are coming — 

And will the sight be fair? 

Darting and swaying and screaming — 

Ever a weaving maze; 
Filling the air with their clamor — 
Sounding a hymn of praise : 

For here's where the Royal Tern's at home 
On shell-scattered isle mid ocean's foam. 

Myriads treading the measure — 

Measure of Fairy reel ; 
Keeping the time with their wing-beats — 
Laughing a joyous peal: 

At all times a-flitting through airy lanes 
Tn intricate lines till the daylight wanes. 

Riotous, free as the ocean — 
Living in harmony, all: 
Lawless, yet all law-abiding — 
Never a fight or brawl; 

This tenement crowded thick with life 
Is ever at work but never at strife. 

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Smaller than many a ball-room 

Floor, where ten thousand nest: 
Young, scattered over the islet — 
Old ones for food a-quest : 
For ever a-move till the sun goes down — 
Industrious folk of Sea-bird Town ! 

Never a moment of silence, 

Never a day of rest ; 
Working out Life and Salvation — 
Always in silver drest: 
These beautiful forms of sea and air — 
These silvery sea-sprites, trim and fair. 

Nesting on sand-covered beaches, 

Breeding among the shells; 
Eggs, almost touching, in thousands, 
Ringed in by ocean swells: 
For this is the islet of Royal Shoal, 
Not distant from far-famed Teach 's Hole. 

Such are these airy forms a-flitting 

Over the azure sea: 
This is that low, dark line a-sitting 

Once more under our lee : 
These are the distant noises humming 

Out of the vibrant air : 
This is the place we now are leaving— 

Truly the sight is fair! 

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The Author. — Baylus Cade was born in Barbour County, 
Virginia (now West Virginia), September 3, 1844, At the 
age of eighteen he entered the Confederate Army and was 
surrendered at Appomattox. Soon after the war he en- 
tered Richmond College, where he remained three years, 
leaving college in June 1869, one year short of graduation. 
He labored as pastor and agent for Education and Corre- 
sponding Secretary for State Missions in West Virginia 
from 1869 to 1885, when he came to North Carolina as 
pastor of Louisburg and Franklinton Baptist Churches. 
He later served two years as Chaplain of the United States 
Penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. But when 
Daniel L. Russell was elected Governor of North Carolina 
he become the Governor's private secretary, serving in this 
capacity three years. At present he is pastor of Boiling 
Springs Baptist Church. He has written a great deal for 
the daily papers of the State, and has several times filled 
editorial positions upon newspapers, both in North Caro- 
lina and West Virginia. 


A youngling thing, with open eyes, 

With knowledge scant, and hungry faiths, 
I used to think the clouds were wraiths, 

That swept adown the azure skies, 

From stars remote within the blue, 
And helped the teeming mother earth 
To give her flowery children birth, 

And blest them with the falling dew. 

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But older now, with dimming eyes, 
With knowledge more, and lesser faiths, 
I know the clouds were never wraiths, 

But earthly vapors that arise, 

And flee away, to come again, 
As prosy forces, trite and old, 
Of inter-acting heat and cold — 

Mechanics of the dew and rain. 


But youngling thoughts were not untrue; 
In spite of wisdom's wise old saws, 
Of this, and that, from nature 's laws, 

I know the all-surrounding Blue — 

Instinct with Uncreated Power, 
That loveth much and beauty brings — 
Is brooding close to living things, 

To make the man and paint the flower. 


So, here I sit, a gray old man, 
And smile and doze, without a fear, 
And dream of scmgs I cannot hear, 

And wait for His unwinding Plan, 

To still the din of crowding strife, 
And win me clear of misty things, 
And catch me up on mounting wings, 

And bear me onward into Life. 

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I'm a Jolly Old Man!— I'm a Jolly Old Man! 
With my face to the future, my back to the past ; 
With the sun dipping low and the night coming fast— 
I will sigh if I must, but I'll laugh all I can, 
For the thitherward ledge, 
Of the deepening night, 
Is the hitherward edge, 
Of the conquering light, 
That is sweeping around with the lovingest plan, 
To dispel all the mists that are hovering gray. 
And reveal me the glint of the upclimbing way 
And embathe me in splendors of Orient day — 
All because I'm a waiting — 
And Jolly Old Man ! 

There are children that own me, their grizzled old Sire ! 
I am living in them, I am living anew ; 
I am living life larger; I'm living more true, 
In those children of Soul ! — In those children of Fire ! — 
O, there's triumph of Right, 

There is ruin of Wrong! 
O, there's growing of Light, 
There is pealing of Song; 
For 'tis certain that evil is under a ban — 

That our knowledge enlarges 1 ; that feeling grows sane, 
That our pleasure is waxing through tapering pain; 
That a kingdom of Manfulness cometh amain, 
To enfold me and keep me — 
A Jolly Old Man I 

There are children away from my touch and my sight ! — 
He hath taken them on to the Amaranth Hills; 
And they wander with Him by the silvery rills, 

That go leaping and flashing through pinnacled light ! 

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There's fulfillment for them 

That is promise to me; 
And the tides I must stem, 
Of the darkening sea, 
They have safely swept over and shine in the van, 
Of a countless array on the hills of the Blest ; 
And they waft me a signal of loving behest, 
To be done with my sorrows and finish my quest,. 
And come over and join them — 
A Jolly Old Man! 

There is standing here now by the chimney 's wide space, 
A sweet Woman with silver spun into her hair; 
She's been comrade of mine through the foul and the 
And the nearness of God is alight in her face ! 
She was lovely at morn, 
She is saintly at eve; 
She is ripening corn, 
For the Reapers to Sheave ; 
When she lovingly turns my gray features to scan, 
I forget all of conflict and bickering strife, 
And my soul goes aflame to my blanching Old Wife, 
Who hath given the best of her fullness of life, 
To inspire me and make me — 
A Jolly Old Man! 

It hath sometimes been hard to take life as it came ; 
For its moods were severe and its shadows were dense, 
And myself, and some others, have wanted in sense 
To adjust our desert to the slope of our claim ; 
But we've seen that the shade 

Is the child of the shine ; 
That commended upgrade 
From the top is decline; 
That the blustering years of this life's little span, 
Are purveyors of good through the portals of ill ; 

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That the way to the high is forever uphill ; 
That the brooding control of the One gracious Will, 
Is just smoothing the way for — 
A Jolly Old Man! 

As the light falls aslant and the night settles down, 
There is wafting to me a faint tremor of tone, 
Come estray from the chaunting around the White 
Where is clashing of cymbal and flashing of crown ! 
So, admonished of change 

From the good to the best — 
Prom a limited range 
To a limitless quest, 
I will wave a goodspeed to earth's weltering clan, 
And detaching myself from these hampering ills, 
And unstopping dull ears to the music that thrills, 
And inclining my face to the far-away Hills, 
I will bid you Good-Night, sirs — 
A Jolly Old Man! 

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The Author. — Mary Bayard Clarke was born in Raleigh, 
N. C., about 1830. She was the daughter of Thomas P. 
Devereux and married Col. William J. Clarke, who distin- 
guished himself in the Mexican War and commanded a 
North Carolina regiment during the Civil War. The fam- 
ily lived in Cuba and Texas a while. But at the outbreak 
of the war they returned to Raleigh. 

Mary Bayard Clarke was a woman of unusual brilliancy. 
She wrote both prose and poetry, and at the close of the 
war resorted to her pen as a means of livelihood. In 
1854 she published a collection of North Carolina verse 
under the title " Wood-Notes.' ' On her return from Cuba 
in 1855 she wrote "Reminiscences of Cuba'* for the South- 
ern Literary Messenger. She published many graceful 
poems, sometimes under the pen-name of "Tenella," some- 
tims as Mrs. W. J. Clarke, and sometimes as Mary Bayard 

One volume of poems called "Mosses From a Rolling 
Stone; or, Idle Moments of a Busy Woman,' ' was pub- 
lished and sold for the benefit of the fund for a cemetery 
in Winchester, Va. 

Among the poems written by her are "Battle of Manas- 
sas," "Battle of Hampton Roads," and other war lyrics. 
She wrote many poems and contributed many stories 
to literary magazines. She was for a time associate ed- 
itor of Literary Pastime, a weekly journal printed in 


Not©. — The author here recalls the patriotism of North 
Carolina soldiers in the Revolutionary War, but laments the 
fact that so many North Carolinians are leaving the State and 
lending their talents to the building of other States. There 


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was a period of our history from 1830 to 1840 when the exodus 
to other States was so great that North Carolina ceased to grow 
in population. Note the reference to the Mecklenburg Declara- 
tion, the Revolutionary War, Kings Mountain, and Guilford 
Court House. 

All hail to thee, thou good old State, the noblest of the 

Who raised the flag of liberty in this our native land! 
All hail to thee ! thy worthy sons were first to spurn the 

The tyrant 's fetters from their hands at Mecklenburg they 

No coward foresight they possessed, on peril's brink to 

Nor waited for a sister State to lead in freedom's cause. 
"Our lives, our fortunes," was the cry, "our honors and 

our all, 
We lay upon our country's shrine, in answer to her call." 

From every heart there rose a shout, "No longer will we 

Submissive at the tyrant's feet: we'll conquer or we'll 

For freedom and our liberties we'll brave proud Eng- 
land's host!" 
King's Mount and Guilford prove it was no idle braggart's 

There England found a worthy foe her far-famed steel 

had met; 
Firm as a rock our fathers stood and cross 'd the bayonet ; 
Locked in the fierce embrace of steel they bravely met 

their death, 
Each bore his foeman to the ground, then yielded up his 


Ye sons of Carolina, I bid you, in her name, 

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Devote your time and talents to retrieve her tarnished 

Ye are scatter 'd through the Union, and, by your sterling 

Are enriching every State save that which gave you birth. 
Whatever your condition, wherever you are found, 
In the ranks of the mechanic, or as tillers of the ground, 
Among the learn 'd professions, in the legislative hall, 
As sailors or as soldiers, ye excel in each and all. 

For steady perseverance, for honesty and truth, 
The sons of Carolina are famous from their youth. 
Then why desert those mountains where first your ardent 

Flashed forth the fire of genius unfetter 'd by control? 
Why leave her peaceful bosom, her rich and fertile soil, 
To seek an El Dorado, for gold to dig and toil! 
Ah ! deep beneath her surface she hideth many an ore, 
Rich gold as pure as Ophir or California's shore. 

I tell you ye are wanting in the noble pride of State, 
Or you would not thus desert her and leave her desolate. 
Ye youth of Carolina, I call upon you now 
To add one single jewel to the crown upon her brow. 
You are entering, from her college, the battlefields of life, 
And her fostering care has arm *d you right nobly for the 

strife ; 
Walk onward, then, to glory; seek literary fame, 
And with the pen of history write Carolina 's name. 

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Note. — The name of the French Broad River in the Chero- 
kee language was "Tah-kee-os-tee," signifying "racing water." 
It is said, however, that the French made a trip from the Ohio 
valley into Western North Carolina and gave it the present 
name. Hot Springs, in Madison County, is located near the 
French Broad. 

Racing Water, who can paint thee, 
With thy scenery wild and grand? 

It would take a magic pencil 
Guided by a master hand. 

Here are towering, rugged mountains, 
Granite rocks all scarred and gray, 

Nature 's altars whence her incense 
Floats in wreaths of mist away. 

At thy feet the murmuring waters 

Now are singing songs of praise, 
Or in sonorous notes triumphant 

A majestic paean raise. 

Down the canyon's rocky gorges 

Now they wildly, madly sweep, 
As, with laughing shout exultant, 

O'er the rocks they joyous leap. 

Then in calm and limpid beauty 

Still and deep they silent flow, 
With the verdant banks o'erhanging 

Pictured in the depths below. 

Pulsing from the heart of Nature, 
Here thy "Hot Spring's" genial gush, 

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There, like stream from Alpine glacier, 
Down the mountains coldly rush. 

Tah-kee-os-tee — Racing Water — 

Was thy sonorous Indian name, 
But as "French Broad* ' thou art written 

On the white man's roll of fame. 

Perish that — but live the other! 

For on every dancing wave 
Evermore is shown the beauty 

Of the name the red man gave. 

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The Author — Nixon Poindexter Clingman was born at 
Huntsville, N. C, November 1, 1847. His grandfather was 
Rev. Henry Patillo, of Granville County, who was a dele- 
gate to the first Provincial Congress and chaplain of that 
body. He was likewise a cousin of General Thomas L. 
Clingman who served this State in the United States Sen- 
ate. During the Civil War he lived at the home of his 
brother-in-law, Colonel Lotte W. Humphrey, in Onslow 
County, to be a protection to his sister while Colonel Hum- 
phrey followed the Stars and Bars. While defending his 
sister's home he was captured by Federal soldiers, but, 
escaping from his captors, he made his way to Golds- 
boro, N. C, where he lived the remainder of his days. 
Here he studied law, but soon drifted into newspaper 
work, and it was to the columns of the Goldsboro Messen- 
ger that he contributed the most of his verse. He died 
July 12, 1885, and was buried in Goldsboro. After his 
death his friends published "A Poet and His Songs," 
which contains his poems and a sketch of his life. 


Land of the South ! embalmed in song 

That echoes down the years, 
Above thy dead to-day we strew 

The victor Bay and burial Yew, 

To tell thy fame in tears : 
For tho ' thy starry cross went down 

Amid the wrathful fight, 
Upon its shining wreck we read 
How hero hearts can break and bleed, 

Before they yield the right. 

Land of the South ! the sweet May-time 
That wooes thy buds and blooms, 

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Doth in its flight adown the Spring 
Its rosy garlands freely bring 

To wreathe thy place of tombs, 
Where lowly winds like mourners bend 

To whisper to the brave, 
Whose quiet brows, tho ' cold beneath, 
Are circled with the laurel 's wreath 

That sparkles from the grave. 

Land of the South ! thy blades no more 

Leap out in hands of steel, 
But in their rust the record sleeps 
That jealous Homer steadfast keeps, 

How Southrons scorn to kneel ; 
And on thy deeds shall Romance love 

To rear her dazzling fane, 
And pilgrims come to haunt the urns 
Where Sorrow broods and Valor turns 

To muse upon thy slain. 

Land of the South ! the stars that burst 

Like blossoms from thy sky, 
Reflect in each a hero 's shade 
Whose knightly deeds shall only fade 

When Time itself shall die ; 
And future Bards shall sweetly wake 

To thee their chosen lyre, 
And woman's lips shall hymn the praise 
To childish ears in tender lays 

Of fallen Southern sire. 

Land of the South ! a Bayard keeps 

All mute his marble rest, 
Within each grave whose storied clay 
Lies in its winding sheet of grey 

Upon thy mother breast; 
And now we bring our floral gifts, 

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And braids of Immortelle, 
As tribute to the courtly dead 
Who followed where thy banner led, 

And with that banner fell. 

Land of the South ! thy squadrons rush 

Down in the fray no more, 
'Mid rifle flash and sabre stroke 
And scenes of blood and battle smoke, 

As in the days of yore, 
But, ah ! the lightning track they left 

Is paved with Spartan dust, 
And legends linger where they rode, 
That gild the page of Valor's Code, 

Of how they kept their trust. 

Land of the South ! a halo gleams 

Upon thy midnight gloom, 
And 'round thy broken shrine it throws 
A wreath of light that constant glows 

About the martyr's tomb, 
And from the darkest ruins spring, 

Where life and hope are dumb, 
Traditions that shall live in song 
That other Minstrels shall prolong 

In days that are to come. 

Land of the South ! about thy wrecks 

The fires of Courage play, 
And Glory gathers from thy grief 
The grandest gleanings in its sheaf 

To garner them for aye ; 
For when the last throb of thy drums 

Grew faint upon the air, 
Immortals bore on wings of flame 
The echo up the steeps of Fame 

And left it living there. 

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Land of the South ! no martial muse 

A purer theme shall teach 
Than how thy colors swift and far 
Swept o 'er the purple field of war 

And lit the deadly breach : 
And Vandal pen can ne'er profane, 

Or blight with venom stroke, 
A single star that hung thereon 
And shone till every hope was gone 

To dare the despot 's yoke. 

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The Author. — Sallie O'H. Dickson, the daughter of a 
Presbyterian minister, was born in Charleston, S. C. She 
was educated in Charleston and Orangeburg, S. C, Female 
College. For some years she taught music, English, and 
art. But for the last twelve years she has devoted her 
time to literature, making her home in Winston-Salem. 
She writes especially for children and young people, hav- 
ing published several books for their use. She has pub- 
lished also a booklet of "Poems" from which the selec- 
tions reproduced below are taken. She usually writes 
over the pen name of "0. H." 


Note. — Grandfather Mountain, in Western North Carolina, is 
the highest elevation of the Blue Ridge. The Roan, a range 
of the Alleghany Mountains, separating North Carolina from 
Tennessee, is 6,313 feet high. Mount Mitchell is the highest 
peak east of the Rocky Mountains. Its altitude is 6,711 feet. 

O patriarch of the hills, thou sleepest well, 
Wrapt in thy regal robes of deepest blue, 
With sunset clouds for canopy! The spell 
Of thy majestic silence rests once more 
Upon my spirit, and I gladly yield 
The homage of a loyal, loving heart. 
Ah ! I have seen old Pisgah, crowned with clouds, 
"Stand up and take the morning"; I have watched 
The rosy dawn blush into beauty rare 
From the famed summit of the mighty Roan ; 
Have stood on Mitchell 's tow 'ring heights and seen 
A hundred mountains break in billows blue 
Against his awful foot; but still I turn 
And yield to thee the palm ! Thou art my king ! 
For something sure there is of kingly power, 

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Of a mysterious majesty, that dwells 

With thee. It calms and soothes th* unquiet heart, 

And whispers, "Thou art safe! For as about 

Jerusalem the mountains are, so God 

Is with His people evermore." 

Ah! know 
There is a subtle power that needs not words, — 
An eloquence more deep than human speech; 
Beneath its sway the soul grows strong in faith 
And in serener trust. It feels afresh 
Th' eternal safety of that happy man 
Who puts his trust in the eternal God ! 


Do we forget when winter snows lie deep 
Above the beds where our beloved sleep, 
And we no longer wildly weep, — 
Do we forget 1 

Because, when comes the holy Christmas tide, 
And love and joy are scattered far and wide, 
We check our sighs, and strive our tears to hide- 
Do we forget? 

Do we forget, because, with mute lips pressed 
To fading pictures, all our love, unguessed, 
Lies locked secure within our patient breast — 
Do we forget 1 

Because, across the widening gulf of years, 
There comes no loving word to quell our fears, 
No watchful hand to brush away our tears, — 
Do we forget? 

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Do we forget? Nay, in each heart there lies 
A secret place, where, hid from mortal eyes, 
Dwells, strong and true, a love that never dies, 
Nor can forget! 


See how the splendor of the sunset sky doth glow 
In the small windows of the village church below! 
Grant, Lord, that in the windows of our souls may shine 
Such reflex beauty from Thy life of love divine! 

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The Author. — Plato Tracy Durham, the author of the 
following poems, was horn in Shelby, September 10, 1873. 
He was prepared for college at Horner's Military School 
and graduated at Trinity College, Durham, N. C, in 1895. 
After leaving Trinity College he attended the Yale Divin- 
ity School, Union Theological Seminary, and Oxford 
(England) University. In 1899 he was elected Professor 
of Biblical Literature and Church History in Trinity Col- 
lege, which position he filled for seven years. At present 
he is the Presiding Elder of the Winston District of the 
M. E. Church, South. 


Note. — This poem was read at Trinity College on July 22, 
1911, when the large new bell was hung to replace the old 
college bell that was destroyed by. fire. The date was the fif- 
tieth birthday of ex-President (now Bishop) John C. Kilgo, 
and in honor of him the bell was named "Marse Jack." 

When weary on the storm-swept hills 
I hush the climber's challenge song, 
And love the dreamy light that fills, 
The lotus-blooming vales of Wrong, 
A warning song rings out to me — 
The deep, stern bells of Trinity. 

When bleeding on the battlefield 
Where Bight's uplifting banners go, 
My coward soul would cry, "I yield," 
And bend before the ancient foe, 
A bugle song enheartens me — 
The clear, brave bells of Trinity. 

r When standing where the bravest die 

And scorning Falsehood's hissing whips, 


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I dare to own my soul and cry 

The Truth, e'en though with bleeding lips, 

A song of triumph rings to me — 

The proud, free bells of Trinity. 

When kneeling desolate and lone 
Within the ancient garden dim, 
I pay the price to them unknown 
Who have not dared to watch with Him, 
A benediction breathes to me — 
The sweet, grave bells of Trinity. 

When far my pathway lies along 
The moorland of the after years, 
When life sings low her evening song 
And all the west a glory wears, 
Then ring your vesper song to me, 
sunset bells of Trinity. 


Note. — A bill providing for the erection of Lee's statue in 
the Capitol at Washington was before Congress. A certain 
Western Senator in opposing the bill made a very bitter speech 
against thus honoring Lee. It had no effect, however, on the 
Senate. This poem was in answer to that speech. It was first 
published in the Charlotte Observer, later in The Outlook, and 
in other papers of the country. 

The years have wrought their miracle : America is one ; 
The dream of Lee and Lincoln, out of light and shadow 

Has come to long fulfillment and their shining task is done. 

Our dead are not forgotten ; we keep vigil o 'er their dust. 
We sing their deeds in deathless song and hold their 

fame a trust 
Till Time, the final judge, shall write a judgment that is 


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But America, our mother of the sorrow-chastened soul, 
Has called and we are coming from the years of bitter 

" Forgiving and forgiven" writ across the darkened scroll. 

And to her field of battle where the light and night oppose, 
Where wrong and right are marshalling their lines of 

ancient foes, 
We follow where America's out-streaming banner goes. 

And marching to the star-sown flag this song of war we 

sing : 
' ' The sword of Lee to battle for America we bring, 
And Jackson's rankers answer where her far-blown bugles 


And when upon that battlefield the victory is thine, 
When high above the death of Wrong thy blazoned stars 

shall shine, 
Look thou for us, America, along the foremost line." 


Note. — Charles Brantley Aycock, North Carolina's "Educa- 
tional Governor," was born in Wayne County, November 1, 
1859. He was elected Governor in 1900; and after a brilliant 
career he died in Birmingham, Ala., April 4, 1912, while ad- 
dressing the Alabama Teachers' Assembly. He spent the 
greater part of his life trying to improve the educational con- 
ditions of North Carolina. This poem was published a few 
days after his death. 

Come rest within my mother-arms, my son; 
The night has come ; the day's long work is done : 
So nobly done that I shall stand to keep 
An endless vigil o'er thy mortal sleep. 

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For thou didst know my need, my bitter dole ; 
Didst catch the vision of my greater soul, 
And all the love of thy brave spirit give 
To make that shining prophet-vision live. 

For me thy soul was as a banner flung ; 
A morning bugle was thy golden tongue, 
Whose ringing challenge to the reign of Night 
Led on my Dawn's embattled hosts of light. 

So long as my own sovereign name is known, 
As shines my star upon the flag star-sown, 
Thy name shall live a deathless memory, 
An heir to mine own immortality. 

When marble monument and brazen bust 
Shall crumble back again to formless dust 
Thy name, deep-graved in love's unfailing art, 
Shall still be written on my children's heart. 


Gray hills are lifting in the west, 
Old with the years of God ; 

Where youth so eagerly ascends 
Millennial feet have trod. 

The ancient sea along the east 

Old in primordial years, 
Still luring with her wander-song, 

Is salt with ageless tears. 

In ancient gardens of Desire 
Still blows the rose of lust ; 

Look well. Beneath your eager feet 
Millennial hearts are dust. 


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The Author. — Little is known of the author of this 
poem. He was a Northern man who came to North Caro- 
lina between 1820 and 1830 and taught school at Hills- 
boro. He wrote several poems that attracted immediate 


Note.*— The "Marriage of the Sun and the Moon" is a beauti- 
ful allegory describing an annual eclipse. It first appeared in 
the Raleigh Register many years before the Civil War and was 
copied in almost every journal of the Union. 

Do you know that a wedding has happened on high, 

And who were the parties united? 
'Twas the Sun and the Moon ! In the halls of the sky 
They were joined and our continent witness 'd the tie — 

No continent else was invited. 

Their courtship was tedious, for seldom they met 

Tete-a-tete, while long centuries glided, 
But the warmth of his love she could hardly forget, 
For, though distant afar, he could smile on her yet, 
Save when earth the fond couple divided. 

But why so prolix the courtship! and why 
So long was postponed their connection? 
That the bridegroom was anxious 'twere vain to deny, 
Since the heat of his passion pervaded the sky; 
But the bride was renown 'd for reflection. 

Besides, 'tis reported their friends were all vexed; 

The match was deemed, somehow, unequal; 
And when bid to the wedding, each made some pretext 


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To decline, till the lovers, worn out and perplex 'd, 
Were compeird to elope in the sequel. 

Mars and Jupiter never such business could bear, 
So they haughtily kept themselves from it ; 

Herschell dwelt at such distance that he could not be 
there ; 

Saturn sent, with reluctance, his ring to the fair, 
By the hands of a trustworthy Comet. 

Only one dim, pale Planet, of Planets the least, 

Condescended the nuptials to honor; 
And that seemed like skulking away to the East: 
Some assert that it was Mercury acting as priest, 

Some Venus a-peeping — shame on her ! 

Earth in silence rejoiced, as the bridegroom and bride 

In their mutual embraces would linger; 
Whilst careering through regions of light at his side, 
She displayed the bright ring, not "a world too wide" 
For a conjugal pledge, on her finger. 

Henceforth shall these orbs, to all husbands and wives, 

Shine as patterns of duty reflected; 
All her splendor and glory from him she derives, 
And she shows to the world the kindness He gives 

Is faithfully prized and reflected. 

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The Author. — Edwin W. Puller was born in Louisburg, 
N. C, November 30, 1847. At the age of seventeen he en- 
tered the University of North Carolina where he remained 
two years. In 1867 he entered the University of Virginia, 
and in the following year received diplomas in the Schools 
of English and Moral Philosophy. There was an interval 
of one year between his leaving the University of North 
Carolina and his entrance to the University of Virginia. 
During this period he wrote "Sea Gift," a novel of un- 
usual popularity. During his college life in Virginia * i The 
Angel in the Cloud" was written and published in the 
University magazine. This poem was published in book 
form in 1871 and attracted complimentary notices from 
the New York Times, the St. Louis Advocate, and from 
other papers of the country. It has passed through six 
editions, having recently been re-published. Many other 
poems were published by him. He died at the old home- 
stead in Louisburg April 22, 1876. 


("Tell them to bury me under the pines at home," from 
"Sea Gift") 

Note. — The author refers to North Carolina as the "Land 
of the Pines." It was already known as the "Tar Heel State." 
The incidents mentioned here refer, of course, to the Civil War. 
In fact, the three following poems refer to the conflict between 
the North and South. 

I would not rest in the mouldering tomb 

Of the grim church-yard, where ivy twines, 
But make me a grave in the forest's gloom, 
Where the breezes wave like a soldier's plume, 
Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines. 

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Where the lights and shadows softly merge, 

And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines ; 
Where the sea-winds, sad with the sob of the surge, 
From the Harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge, 
For the dead beneath the sorrowing pines. 

When the winter's icy fingers sow 

The mound with jewels till it shines, 
And cowled in hoods of glistering snow, 
Like white-veiled sisters bending low, 
Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines. 

While others fought for cities proud, 

For fertile plains and wealth of mines, 
I breathed the sulphurous battle-cloud, 
I bared my breast, and took my shroud, 
For the land where waved the grand old pines. 

Though comrades sighed and loved ones wept 
For the form down in the battle-lines, 

In my grave of blood I gladly sleep, 

If the life I gave will help to keep 

The Vandal's foot from the Land of Pines. 

The Vandal 's foot hath pressed our sod, 
His heel hath crushed our sacred pines ; 
And bowing 'neath the chastening rod, 
We lift our hearts and hands to Go#, 
And cry, "Oh, save our Land of Pines !" 


Thou who in the war-stained years 
Saw our heroes' life-blood shed, 

Consecrate our flowers and tears 
Incense to our memorial dead. 

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Love we them more tenderly 

Since their hallowed death was vain, 

Though they fought so manfully, 
Those they left still wear the chain. 

Ask them not about success, 
Hear they only duty's call; 
In the mortal march they press, 
Bravely charge, and bravely fall. 


Note. — General James Johnston Pettigrew was a North Caro- 
lina soldier in the Civil War who won fame in the battle of 
Gettysburg, where he was killed. 

When poets cull memorial flowers, 

With which our martyrs' graves to strew, 
They choose no one in Nature's bowers 
For Pettigrew. 

Yet there is one, and only one, 

Which truly represents his name ; 
A flower that revels in the sun, 
And drinks his flame. 

A flower, that opens when, all red, 

The sun hath kissed the eastern skies ; 
But westward turned, it droops its head 
And proudly dies. 


Thus when the sun of victory sheared 

Its gory way o'er clouds of war, 
This flower's tow 'ring crest appeared 
A beacon star. 

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And in its gorgeous, glorious rays, 

This flower basked, and only bowed 
When coming conquest's bloody haze 
That sun did shroud. 

Crushed flower, with thy broken stem, 

111 keep thee near to typify 
The fallen form; the hero's fame 
Can never die. 


How long and loud their booming thunder 

Rends the golden air asunder, 
While the ransomed, passing under, 

Fall in praise beneath the bells, 

Whose mighty throbbing welcome tells: 
And the Angels hush their harps in wonder — 

Bells of Heaven, glory booming bells ! 

Gentler now, the silver's shiver 
Purls the rippling waves that quiver 
Through the ether's tide forever, 
Mellow as they left the bells, 
Whose softening vibrate welcome tells: 
And the quavers play adown the river — 
Bells of Heaven, softly sobbing bells! 

Then the dreamy cadence dying 

Sings as soft as zephyrs sighing; 

Faintest echoes cease replying 
To the murmur of the bells, 
Whose stilling tremor welcome tells, 

Faintly as the snow-flakes falling, lying — 
Bells of Heaven, dreamy, murmuring bells ! 

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Note. — These two stanzas are taken from the poem, "The 
Volunteers" of Alexander Gaston, son of Judge William Gaston. 
It was written in honor of our volunteers in the war with 


They are gathering, they are gathering 

From the cabin and the hall, 
The rifle leaves its bracket, 

And the steed must quit its stall. 
The country sends its thousands 

And the city pours its throng, 
To resent their Country's insult, 

To avenge their Country's wrong. 

They are gathering, they are gathering 

From mountain and from plain, 
Resolved in heart, of purpose high, 

A bold and fearless train. 
No forceful mandate calls them out, 

No despot bids them go; 
They obey the freeman's impulse 

But to strike the freeman's blow. 


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The Author. — Judge William Gaston was one of the 
most distinguished men of America in his day and gen- 
eration. He was born in New Bern, September 19, 1778. 
When he was only three years old his father, an officer 
in the Revolution, was shot down in the presence of his 
family. William's mother was a Roman Catholic, and 
when he was thirteen he was sent to Georgetown Univer- 
sity. He was the first student to enter this institution, 
and to-day the main hall is named in his honor. Later he 
entered Princeton College where he graduated. 

He studied law and was admitted to the bar at the age 
of twenty. The year after he became of age he was 
elected Senator from his native county. He was twice 
Speaker of the House. He became a member of Congress 
in 1813, and Webster pronounced him the first man in 
Congress. He was a great lawyer, and in 1833 became 
Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of North Carolina. 
It is said that he did more than any other one man to 
make North Carolina respected and beloved by its citi- 
zens. He died in Raleigh, January 23, 1844. 


Note. — It was during the Whig Convention, August 5-6, 
1840, that Judge Gaston wrote "The Old North State." The 
Convention assembled in open air on the west side of the Capi- 
tol. Some foreign minstrel produced an air that was so beautiful 
and pleasing to the Convention that the ladies present desired 
appropriate words for it. To gratify them and the children of 
General J. F. Taylor, Judge Gaston wrote the words given be- 
low on the night of August 5th. On the next day when the 
Convention assembled the song was sung to the air that had 
been played the day before. 


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Carolina! Carolina! Heaven's blessings attend her! 
While we live we will cherish, protect and defend her ; 
Though the scorner may sneer at and witlings defame her, 
Our hearts swell with gladness whenever we name her. 

Hurrah! Hurrah! the Old North State forever! 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the good Old North State ! 

Though she envies not others their merited glory, 
Say, whose name stands the foremost in Liberty's story! 
Though too true to herself e 'er to crouch to oppression, 
Who can yield to just rule more loyal submission? 

Plain and artless her sons, but whose doors open faster 
At the knock of a stranger, or the tale of disaster? 
How like to the rudeness of their dear native mountains, 
With rich ore in their bosoms and life in their fountains. 

And hei? daughters, the Queen of the Forest resembling — 
So graceful, so constant, yet to gentlest breath trembling ; 
And true lightwood at heart, let the match be applied 

How they kindle and flame ! Oh ! none know but who 've 

tried them. 

Then let all who love us, love the land that we live in 
(As happy a region as on this side of Heaven) , 
Where Plenty and Freedom, Love and Peace smile be- 
fore us, 
Raise aloud, raise together, the heart-thrilling chorus! 

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The Author. — Pattie Williams Gee was born in Halifax 
County, North Carolina, March 10, 1867. Her father, Dr. 
Charles James Gee, was a surgeon in the army of Northern 
Virginia, he being a member of the First North Carolina 
State Troops. She lived with her maternal grandmother, 
Mrs. Prank P. Haywood, until Mrs. Haywood's death, 
after which she came to the home of her aunt, Mrs. 
Richard C. Badger, of Raleigh, N. C, under whose care 
she grew to womanhood. She received her education at 
St. Mary's School, Raleigh, and at Packard's Business 
College of New York. After completing her education 
she was employed in various lines of special work, some- 
times living in North Carolina and sometimes in New 
York. In 1905, however, she ceased to do steady work 
and made her home at Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey. 
She recently made her home in Raleigh, N. C. ; but later 
she moved to South Bethlehem, Pa., where her life was 
given up to religious work. She is the inventor of the 
Medallion Genealogical Register, which has been patented 
in America and Europe. In 1905 she issued a small vol- 
ume of forty poems entitled, "The Palace of the Heart," 
which attracted the attention of lovers of genuine poetry. 
The Boston Transcript, the New York Times, and other 
leading dailies made complimentary mention of the vol- 
ume. A Newark paper said: "Unquestionably the finest 
poem in the volume is ' Mater Mea, Carolina,' wherein the 
part played by North Carolina men in the Civil War is 
commemorated. ' ' 


Mater Mea, Carolina, 
my Mother, Carolina, 
I have seen the world 's confines 


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And grown weary with its visions; 
Sooth me with thy sighing pines. 

Shield me with thy mighty mountains 
While I lean upon that breast 
Where the prodigal and heart-sick 
Ever find a welcome rest. 

Then, in accents low and tender ; 

Lead my soul to regions vast ; 
Open wide those gates of splendor 

Where the great Confederate passed. 

Ah, I know, though late seceding, 

Thou wast foremost of them all; 
That his veins thy blood was coursing, 

Who was first to bleed and fall. 

When Fate's thrilling bugle summoned, 

Leaving home and youthful joys, 
Up rose a hundred thousand men 

And twenty thousand beardless boys. 

Not in all the ancient ages, 

Nor in modern wars' alarms, 
Has a patriot State or Nation 

Answered thus a call to arms! 

I can see them as they gathered 
Prom the west and from the coast, 
Pressing on to Bethel's triumph, 
Vanguard of the Southern host ! 

For thy honor and the hearthstones 

Of the loved and the revered, 
These, my Mother, calm, reluctant 

Dared to fight and no man feared. 

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'Twas thy son, Carolina, 

Who that matchless flag unfurled, 

Sailing out upon the ocean, 
Wrapped a glory round the world ! 

And at Gettysburg, undaunted 
By its blood and booming shell, 

Pettigrew and his immortals 
Plunged into the mouth of hell ! 

Once alone I felt thee falter, 
Once I mutely turned my head, 

Lest I see thee bowed in anguish 
Over forty thousand, dead. 

Yet at mournful Appomattox 

Thou didst take thy last sad stand, 

Thou, a mater dolorosa 

Unto half that haggard band. 

And since that dark day in springtime, 
When a nation's sun went down, 
Mater Mea, Carolina, 
my Mother, Carolina, 
Thou hast borne a noble patience, 
Greater than thy war's renown 1 

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The mist which o'er the morning 
Casts a mantle gray and pale 

Will be lifted by the sunshine 
As a woman lifts her veil ; 

And those solemn sweeping shadows, 
Falling on life's lonely way, 

Give us promise of the dawning 
Of that fairer, gladder day, 

When the voiceless loves of mortals, 
Sad hearts winnowed by the rod, 

Shall at last find full fruition 
In the holy heart of God! 

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The Author. — Joseph H. Gillespie was born in Duplin 
County April 5, 1861. His circumstances and feeble health 
did not allow him to make attainments commensurate 
with his ambition. The entire time he was in school was 
less than four years. 

He was licensed to preach by the Missionary Baptist 
Church at the age of twenty-three, and served two 
churches as pastor for one year, but was forced to re- 
linquish his work, having realized that he was a victim of 

During the spring of 1888 he spent ten days at Wake 
Forest College, in order to receive instruction in versifica- 
tion. During the following summer he carefully revised 
all his poems, hoping to live to see the work of his pen in 
the hands of the public. A part of the edition was re- 
ceived by him December 21, 1888, but his means were too 
limited and his end too near for him to see his work in 
the hands of his fellows. His life slowly ebbed away until 
its close February 27, 1889. A volume, entitled "Elsinore 
and Other Poems,' ' was published after his death. 


The clouds that fill the earth with gloom 
Make Spring-time bright with bud and bloom, 
And crown with fruits and social cheer 
The golden season of the year. 

Then why at destiny complain 
When sorrow, like the clouds and rain, 
In God's appointed time may prove 
Man's richest blessings from above! 


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Somewhere there's a shadowy valley ,- 
Men call it the valley of Death 

And tell of the horrors that haunt it 
"With quick and laboring breath. 

But I have dwelt in the valley 
Through long and painful years, 

And I know its ghosts are illusions 
Begot of sinful fears. 

For through the mists of the valley 

Rise lofty, snowy walls, 
And a friendly voice in the distance 

To the weary pilgrim calls. 

And I turn my eyes from the valley 

To the hill-tops far away, 
And I see the towers of Zion 

In the light of endless day. 

And I know that when the valley 
And its shadows shall be past 

A home beyond the valley 
Awaits my soul at last. 

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Note. — The battle of Chancellorsville was fought on the 2nd 
and 3rd of May, 1863. "Stonewall" Jackson was mortally 
wounded in this battle. His last words were: "Let us cross 
o'er the river and rest under the shade of the trees." 

The foe in confusion was flying 
Prom the scene of the terrible fray, 

While wounded, bleeding and dying 
The invincible Stonewall lay. 

Yet still, in fancy, he was leading 

His legion after the fight, 
At God's holy altar was pleading 

For aid in the cause of the right. 

But the arrows were gone from the quiver, 
The cup was drained to the lees, 

As he cried, "Let us cross o'er the river 
And rest under the shade of the trees !" 

None heard the rush of the waters, 
None heard the plash of the oar, 

But the leader forever departed, 
And the army wept by the shore. 

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At eventide the lengthening shades foretell 
The sun's decline and day's swift coming close ; 

So by my waning strength I know full well 
That night is near, — the end of all life's woes. 

Not like a child, who, ere he goes to rest, 
Doth lay aside his toys with many a tear, 

But like a reaper, believing all is best, 
I lay aside the arms I may no longer bear. 

Not knowing what will be the recompense 
Of all my deeds before the Judge of all, 

I lay me down, trusting that Providence 
That pities even the humble sparrow's fall. 

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The Author. — Charles Luther Greaves was born June 
12, 1872, in Pasquotank County, son of Mary True- 
blood and Jehu Wescott Graves. He was reared on the 
farm and attended the public schools. Prepared for 
college at Bethel Hill Institute, in Person County, he grad- 
uated at Wake Forest College in the class of 1897 and at 
the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, Louisville, Ky., 
in 1906. His pastorates have been in North Carolina, Ken- 
tucky, and Georgia, his present home being at Hawkins- 
ville, Ga. His " Lines to a Snow-bird' ' were first pub- 
lished in 1904, when they attracted attention and were 
widely copied. "The Minstrels of the Pasquotank* ' first 
appeared in Uncle Remus 's Home Magazine for August, 
1912, to which the compiler is indebted for permission to 
re-publish here. "The Shout of a King" was first pub- 
lished in 1907. 


Thou fleet, frail voyager of the scowling sky, 
Thy heavens swept by storms, thy earth so cold, 
Thou art too small with venturous wings to try 
Mid surging gusts thy devious course to hold : 
What charm doth keep thee here when stronger forms 
Have sped in screaming haste before these storms? 

A sparrow's form, an eagle's heart is thine, 
Small wings, but strong and sure mid perils stern, 
Not honied ease, where tropic suns do shine, 
Can win thee from these frost-bound hills to turn ; 
Thy being tuned to its wild melody, 
The storm is dearer than the calm to thee. 

Oh, surely kindly heaven has made thee know 


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That secret taught by Him of Galilee, 
To comfort timorous men long years ago ; 
That He who rules creation thinks of thee, 
Through eddying snow doth heed thy chirping call, 
And when confused and weary marks thy fall. 

Thou small, true knight upon my window ledge, 
Teach me to love the storm like thee, to keep 
Myself from sunny ease, to hold the pledge 
Of heaven sure while tempests round me sweep ; 
So in my heart shall summer's calm warmth cheer 
The bitter winter of life's strenuous year. 


Away down yonder on the Pasquotank, 
Where the bull-frogs jump from bank to bank, 
And the tide moves slow mid the cypress knees, 
And the pools are dark 'neath the arching trees ; 
How well I remember when the frogs are jolly, 
Their deep bass calls and thunderous volley, 
When the water creeps cool 'neath the matted roots, 
1 Down under the roots, down under the roots/ * 
And the river moves quiet and happy and deep, 
Moves " happy and deep, knee-deep, knee-deep." 

Away down yonder on the Pasquotank, 

Where the flags are thick and the mosses dank, 

When lulls the roar of the bull-frog band 

The small frogs pipe on every hand, 

And a million shrill throats sing of herrings, 

Of " herrings, herrings, herrings, herrings," 

And of bacon, "fry-bacon, fry-bacon, fry-bacon," 

Pray what can they know about herrings and bacon ! 

And yet as a child I learned for true, 

That is what they sing the whole night through ! 

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Ah, wild, plebeian, boisterous frogs, 
Your piping all night in the reeking bogs 

Was melody sweet to my infant ear; 

For softer notes 'twas not tuned to hear, 

Like Philomel 's on his sprig of holly, 

But the bold frogs songs that are hearty and jolly. 

Where all join in with a right good will, 

And the big frogs roar and the little frogs trill, 

And make the night merry along the bank 

Of the shimmering, gloomy, old Pasquotank. 

Ye wee frog-folk of the Pasquotank, 
May your race dwell long on its reedy bank, 
May you chant always the same old notes, 
In the same white vests and bright green coats, 
May you always sing ' ( fry-bacon, fry-bacon, ' ' 
The song of plenty, of herrings and bacon ; 
May the tide creep cool 'neath the matted roots, 
"Down under the roots, down under the roots," 
And the stream move quiet and happy and deep, 
Move "happy and deep, knee-deep, knee-deep." 

("The shout of a king is among them," — Num. 23:21) 

Here's to the masterful man, 
The stout heart that prevails ; 

Here's to the man who can, 
The lord of him who fails. 

Here's to the pulse that's strong, 
The hand of might and right, 

The soul that hurls along 
The red blast of the fight ! 

Here's to the captain's shout, 
The king's voice in the host, 


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The onset and the rout, 
Proof of the strong man's boast. 

The rabble becomes the state, 

The mob the serried band, 
When kings shout in the gate 

And great souls wake the land. 

For never, since time began, 

Came any glorious thing 
Without a mighty man, 

The strong cry of a king. 

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The Author. — William Bernard Harrell was born De- 
cember 17, 1823, in Suffolk, Va. After graduating at 
Randolph-Macon College, he became a practicing phy- 
sician. His activities as a Christian worker resulted in 
a revival at Snow Hill, N. C, out of which grew a Bap- 
tist church which desired him as pastor; and thus, as his 
biographer says, he "was in the active work of the min- 
istry before he knew it." After an active ministry of 
forty years or more, he died in Dunn, N. C, November 
25, 1906, three days after the death of his wife, who had 
been his help-meet for fifty-six years. Says the biogra- 
pher just quoted: "Both of them were gifted musicians. 
In a number of cases the husband would compose the hymn 
or song and the wife the melody, and then they would 
sing it together. • • • • • The best known of these 
productions is perhaps the patriotic song, 'Ho! for Caro- 
lina,' which will perpetuate these worthy names to the 
school children of the Old North State for ages to come." 


Let no heart in sorrow weep other days ; 

Let no idle dreamer tell in melting lays 

Of the merry meetings in the rosy bowers ; 

For there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours ! 

Ho ! for Carolina ! that's the land for me ; 
In her happy borders roam the brave and free ; 
And her bright-eyed daughters none can fairer be ; 
Oh ! it is a land of love and sweet liberty ! 

Down in Carolina grows the lofty pine, 

And her groves and forests bear the scented vine ; 


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Here are peaceful homes, too, nestling 'mid the flowers. 
Oh ! there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours ! 

Ho ! for Carolina ! etc. 
Come to Carolina in the summer-time, 
When the luscious fruits are hanging in their prime, 
And the maidens singing in the leafy bowers; 
Oh ! there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours ! 

Ho ! for Carolina ! etc. 

Then, for Carolina, brave and free, and strong, 
Sound the meed of praises "in story and in song" 
From her fertile vales and lofty granite towers, 
For there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours ! 

Ho ! for Carolina ! etc. 

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The Author. — Thomas Watts Harrington was born Sep- 
tember 5, 1849, in a portion of Cumberland County that 
is now Harnett, and has spent all his life on the farm. 
He is of English and Scotch ancestry. The maternal an- 
cestors of himself and of his father came from Scotland. 
His education was received in the common schools of the 
time, his schools days ending in 1867. But having "a 
pair of good eyes and an abundant supply of pine knots," 
he kept up his reading and study to good advantage. He 
was elected a member of the House of Representatives 
from Harnett in 1886 and 1902 and of the Senate in 1906. 
He was elected on the County Board of Education in 1900 
and served two years; chosen again in 1909, he is still 
an active member of the Board. Mr. Harrington's pub- 
lished verses have appeared mainly in the newspapers, 
but the most of his productions are still unpublished. 

"Carolina, Our Pride," was composed and spoken in a 
warm political campaign to offset the effect of Scott's 
"Breathes there a man with soul so dead," with which 
Mr. Harrington's opponent was wont to close his speeches. 
Mr. Harrington won in the election. "The Gander" was 
written more than a quarter of a century ago for a little 
son of the poet to recite on the closing day of his school. 
It has been recited by many a little boy since that day, 
and is likely to be recited by many more, for it possesses 
the not too common merit of being true to nature. ' ' The 
two bird-lyrics just bubbled up out of a plowboy's nature- 
loving heart. 


Carolina, the pride of my bosom 

Carolina, the land of the free, 
Carolina, the land of my fathers, 

Carolina, my song is of thee. 

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From Mitchell, the pride of the mountains, 

To Hatteras, the dread of the sea, 
The sunshine of liberty gladdens 

And tyranny trembles at thee. 

Her honor is high as the summit 

Of Mitchell, her loftiest peak, 
Her vigor is that of the Roman, 

Her spirit is that of the Greek. 
Her daughters are bright as the sunshine 

That lightens the hills of the west, 
And fair as the rose of the valley 

That blushes and blooms on her breast. 

On her vine-clad sands of the ocean, 

Where Manteo greeted the whites, 
Were laid the first aches of empire 

And freedom looked down from its heights. 
She felt the first tread of the Angle 

And Saxon to people this land, 
Tho' rude was the welcome she gave them, 

And rough the fierce gale on her strand. 

What tho' the grim hand of disaster 

Swept over the island and sea; 
There's ever a charm in the story 

That tells of a Raleigh for me. 
In mystery deep and unfathomed 

And dark as the depths of the sea, 
More mute than the symbols of Egypt 

Is "Croatan" carved on a tree. 

On her shore by the sweep of the billow, 
Where the sea gulls mingle their cries, 

The babe of the Angle and Saxon 
First opened her innocent eyes, 

And saw the foundations of empire, 

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Surpassing the grandeur of Rome, 
Now spanned by arches of glory, 
A wonder for ages to come. 

Away with the ruthless insulter 

Her honor would sully and stain ; 
The stone that the builders rejected 

Is the beauty and strength of her. fane. 
She was first in the battle for freedom, 

First to close tyranny's gates, 
First in the heart of her children, 

A pillar of cloud in the States. 

From the lakes of the North she has battled 

Wherever her captains have led; 
To the gates of the Montezumas, 

She numbers by thousands her dead. 
Sublime as her martial glory 

She asks an unending release, 
That the shouts of her soldiers forever 

Be hushed in the anthems of peace. 

The east and the west are united 

By bands of iron and steel, 
And doctors of progress, excited, 

Her pulse are beginning to feel. 
Hamlets are springing like magic, 

The deserts beginning to bloom. 
The " strip of land south of Virginia" 

Is humming with spindle and loom. 

Then forward and upward our motto, 

And never look backward or stop, 
The base of the summit tho' crowded 

Is never so full at the top. 
Hurrah! Carolina, forever, 

A glorious destiny waits 
Carolina, the cradle of freedom, 

The noblest of all the great States. 

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A gander is a noisy fowl, 

And very fond of strife; 
The oldest goose that's in the flock 

He's sure to make his wife. 

His feet are very broad and flat, 

His neck is long and slim, 
And when he pokes it out at me, 

I'm sure to run from him. 

In springtime he is very fierce — 

A real fractious pest — 
He will not let me go about 

His dear companion's nest. 

There's like a sentinel on guard, 
Hell stand from morn till night, 

And stretch his neck and hiss and squall 
And flap his pinions white. 

He helps the old goose build her nest 

Of all the trash in sight, 
And gets in now and then himself 

To see it's finished right. 

Well pleased, he stands around the nest 

On one foot half the day, 
And pulls the feathers off the hens 

That dare to go that way. 

And when the goslings are hatched out, 
His little flock don't bother, 

And if I see him come this way, 
I'm sure to go the other. 

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A woman can out-talk a man, 

In anger or in fun; 
A gander can out-talk a goose, 

And beat her two to one. 

He gabs so fast in telling how 
He whipp'd some saucy hen, 

The old goose only gets a word 
In edgeways now and then. 

And then he '11 get in such a glee 

To tell the news intent, 
The old goose gives up in despair 

And merely nods assent. 

Now sometimes little boys and girls 
Break their dear teachers' rule, 

And come with smutty hands and face 
And soil their books at school. 

A gander is a cleanly fowl 
(Although he's very mean) ; 

If he has access to a brook, 
Hell keep his feathers clean. 

In that regard, my little friends, 

I raise a flag of truce, 
And bid you lay aside your wit 

And emulate a goose. 

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bonnie bird with speckled breast, 
I've listened to your singing; 

Let not my presence once arrest 
Your song so sweetly ringing. 

And 111 recline upon my plow, 
A listener pleased and willing; 

While you sit on yon topmost bough, 
Your morning descant trilling. 

While through the whisp'ring pines the sun 
Beams clear in golden splendor, 

You've both my heart and favor won, 
And 111 attention render. 

Pate spare you and your summer brood 

To live and hold dominion 
O'er waving field and shady wood, 

To exercise your pinion. 

Oh, that I were as free as you 
To spend the day at leisure! 

1 have a heart as light, 'tis true, 
But fewer days for pleasure. 

Alas! I see you've spread your wing 

To fly to yonder bower; 
Return to-morrow morn and sing 

The dew is on the flower. 

I thank you for your serenade, 
My feathered friend and neighbor; 

You've flown to yonder glen of shade, 
And left the bard to labor. 

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Wizard of song of all the choir, 
With skillful touch, th' aerial lyre 
Yields unto thee its varied strain 
Of carols sweet; 
And every song thou'st ever heard 
Was ever sung by any bird, 
In waving field or shady lane ; 

Thou canst repeat. 

little blithesome king of birds, 
Thou hast the music and the words 
The poor old thrush essayed to sing, 
But could not stay ; 
His song you so much better sung, 
And clearer spoke his mother-tongue, 
I see he's stretched his whirring wing 
To fly away. 

The vaunted trill of nightingales, 
Whose notes arise when evening pales 
In dulcet strain in summer time, 
I've never heard; 
But when I wish for varied song, 
In springtime gay or summer long, 
I'd rather hear the king of chime, 
The mocking bird. 

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The Author. — Marshall DeLancey Haywood was born 
March 6, 1871, in the house where he now resides, on land 
purchased by his grandfather soon after Raleigh was laid 
out. His paternal ancestors lived in Edgecombe and Hali- 
fax Counties in Colonial and Revolutionary days. Mr. 
Haywood was educated in the public schools and at the 
Raleigh Male Academy, also studying history for one ses- 
sion (1900-1901) at Johns Hopkins University. In 1901- 
1902 he was Assistant State Librarian, and Librarian of 
the A. & M. College, 1902-1903. He is General Historian 
of the Sons of the Revolution and Secretary of that 
Society in North Carolina, Secretary of the North Caro- 
lina Society of the Cincinnati, Historian of the Masonic 
Grand Lodge, Historiographer of the Episcopal Church in 
the Diocese of North Carolina, and Associate Editor of the 
Biographical History of North Carolina, to which he has 
contributed upwards of one hundred and twenty-five 
sketches, mostly Colonial and Revolutionary. He is au- 
thor of two volumes : a biography of Governor Tryon and 
Lives of the Bishops of North Carolina, besides numerous 
pamphlets, magazine articles, and verses relative to State 
history. His private library of North Carolina historical 
and poetical works is one of the largest and most com- 
plete in the State. 



Note. — These verses give a historically correct account of the 
battle of Moore's Creek Bridge. Colonel Donald McLeod (pro- 
nounced McCloud) led the ' Highlanders in battle, and fell 
pierced by more than twenty bullets. His commanding officer, 
General Donald McDonald, was prevented by sickness from par- 


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ticipating in the battle, but was later made prisoner. Only 
one American (John Grady) was killed at Moore's Creek. 

A rifle on my chimney hung 

With lock of flint and steel — 
A piece whose summons sharp had rung 

Beside the cannon's peal 
When patriots for freedom fought, 

When waved their blades in air 
Around the homes their sires had sought 

'Mid Indian forests fair. 

Within an arm-chair's warm embrace 

In weariness I lay 
Before a cheerful fireplace 

Which drove dull care away; 
Then, gazing on the weapon grim, 

I thought upon the past, 
Nor recked I that my blaze grew dim, 

And wintry was the blast. 

And now, it seems, in vision clear, 

Another scene I see — 
In comes an ancient pioneer 

And doffs his cap to me ; 
Around the room he casts his eyes 

Till on the gun they fall, 
And then, unheeding my surprise, 

He lifts it from the wall. 

"In spirit-land I long have dwelt," 

He thus his tale began, 
"And in the silent hours have felt 
So far remote from man 
That o'er the earth my eyes were cast 

To find some token old 
And fate rewards my search at last 
With this dear prize I hold. 

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*'This rifle true, now owned by you, 
Was once my pride and trust, 
It heard the red man's fierce halloo, 

And dashed him to the dust ; 
In peace, it filled my board with game, 
• In war, it played its part, 
And when the Tories charging came 
It found their leader's heart. 

"Recalling now the years long dead, 

Methinks again I hear 
McDonald's Highland legions tread 

The pathway to Cape Pear ; 
A winding creek they soon behold, 

Spanned by a bridge of pine, 
Where, like the Spartan host of old, 

Stands drawn our battle line. 

' 'King George and broadswords!' fierce and loud 

Next rings their slogan call, 
As the great chieftain, brave McLeod, 

Comes rushing to his fall; 
Yet onward still, with charge and cheer, 

His clansmen press the fight, 
As paladins, unknown to fear, 

With claymores long and bright. 

"The bridge was long, with planks uptorn, 

The stream ran swift below, 
Yet quick to dare this hope forlorn, 

Pressed forward still our foe; 
Before our rifles' deadly crack 

Full brave they made a stand, 
But faltered on the narrow track 

Ere they had gained the land. 

"Then, drenched with blood, they onward bore, 
While still was spared them breath, 

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And fell our fatal guns before — 
Unconquered still in death ! 

Thus darkly closed that deadly fray 

And Freedom's sun uprose, 
To shine on happier scenes to-day 

When vanquished are our foes." 

The pioneer thus closed his tale, 

Assumed a martial tread, 
And pausing there, so tall and pale, 

Thus solemnly he said: 
4 'When other foes our country smite, 

And she's cast down with doubt, 
I'll bring this rifle to the fight 

And help to drive them out." 

Then waving me a fond adieu, 

My guest no longer spoke, 
His presence faded out of view — 

And slowly I awoke ! 
Upon the chimney once again 

Was seen the hunter's friend, 
My fire in ashes long had lain 

And night was at an end. 



Xote. — This noted pirate is said to have had the number of 
wives indicated in the second stanza; but the number of 
daughters and little boys is given in "poetic figures." Other- 
wise this entertaining tale, so full of stirring action and vi- 
vacious humor, may be taken as a historically accurate account 
of the final undoing of Blackbeard. 

On the coast of Carolina, 
In the dim and distant past, 

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Lived a gay and fearless pirate, 

Who could weather any blast; 
And all the ladies madly loved 

This buccaneer so bold, 
Who wore a gorgeous uniform 

With epaulets of gold. 

He had thirteen loving spouses 

To share his earthly joys, 
He had several hundred daughters 

And ninety little boys; 
And when -within the nursery 

These brats began to cry, 
He'd start out on a voyage — 

In a ship he didn't buy. 

He raised his sable standard 

Beside the Spanish Main, 
Then scuttled twenty galleons, 

And started north again; 
In bleak New England's waters 

He rode before the gale, 
And for the coast of Africa 

Put forth his dreaded sail. 

Along the sands of Guinea 

He went in search of gold, 
And came off with some natives 

Stored snugly in his hold; 
When he was home again, he said, 

He'd sell his human goods 
To planters on the Albemarle 

In Carolina's woods. 

Then he returned to Ocracoke, 

And, as he looked around, 
He thought he saw two merchant ships 

Come sailing through the sound; 

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"We'll take these now," the corsair said, 
"And soon will have them plundered," 
But, as he spoke these careless words, 
Two crashing broadsides thundered! 

What he had thought were merchants ships, 

Like drones without a sting, 
Were sloops of war from Hampton Roads 

Sent out by England's King! 
They shot the pirate's sails to shreds, 

They slaughtered all his crew, 
They made his boat a floating wreck, 

And cut his neck in two. 

High on a mast his head they kept — 

A warning sad and dire ! — 
While all his little children wept 

To lose their noble sire; 
And all his winsome widows, too, 

With grief would nearly choke 
When thinking of their lover true 

Who died in Ocracoke. 

So now, my friends, to end this lay, 

A moral let me press — 
Don't act as did this rover gay 

And marry to excess; 
For wives galore engender strife, 

And you mil have to roam, 
Or pass away your weary life 

With squalling babes at home. 

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Never did Fame record a name 
From falsehood's taint more free; 

Never did sinful earth give birth 
To son more brave than he. 

In peace, he was a leader sage, 

In war, a soldier true ; 
No secret strife he waged in life, 

His actions all men knew. 

No ill-got treasure stained his hands, 
No selfish ends he sought; 

God send our State such men again — 
Men who can ne'er be bought! 

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The Author. — Theophilus Hunter Hill was born near 
Raleigh, in Wake County, October 31, 1836. One of his 
grandfathers was a soldier in the American army dur- 
ing the Revolution and another served as chaplain in the 
army of George Washington. In 1853 the subject of this 
sketch became editor of a paper published in Raleigh call- 
ed The Spirit of the Age. While editing this paper he 
studied law and in 1858 was admitted to practice. A 
literary life, however, was more to his liking. He there- 
fore gave up the law and from 1871 to 1872 he was State 
Librarian. Later he became editor of The Century, a 
paper published in South Carolina. 

Theophilus Hunter Hill was a pure nature lover, and 
his poems are best when his subjects are drawn from 
the woods and fields. His poems are contained in three 
small volumes. The first was published in Raleigh in 
1861 and was called ' 'Hesper and Other Poems/' It was 
the first book published under the copyright law of the 
Confederate States. His second book was simply called 
" Poems' ' and was published in New York in 1869. His 
third book contains his best poems. It was called " Pas- 
sion Flower and Other Poems,' ' and was published in 
Raleigh in 1883. The rest of his life was devoted to liter- 
ary work. He died in Raleigh June 29, 1901. 


"Who is merrier than It" 

Quoth the golden Butterfly ; 
"In the shining court of May, 

Whose apparel half so gay? 

I reflect each sparkling hue 

Of her radiant retinue; 

I have kissed the lily's cheek; 

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I have played at 'hide and seek,' 
Veiled Violet, with you ! 
Who is merrier than IV 
Quoth the golden Butterfly. 

"I have flirted, too, with thee, 
Tremulous Anemone ! 
And the blue-eyed pimpernel, 
And the Canterbury-bell 
Are superlatively blest, 
Should I, for a moment, rest 
Down in yonder glassy dell : 
Little do they dream that I 
From their soft caresses fly 
But to breathe the rare perfume 
Of the pale Magnolia bloom; 
Or to spend a listless hour, 
In the cool, secluded bower 
Of the pining Passion Flower ! 
Blither wooer, who than I?" 
Quoth the gallant Butterfly. 

"When the shades of evening fall, 
Like the folding of a pall; 
When the dew is on the flowers, 
And the mute, unconscious Hours 
Still pursue their noiseless flight 
Through the dreamy realms of night , 
How delightful to recline 
On this crimson couch of mine ! 
Zephyrs, languid with perfume, 
Gently rock my cradle-bloom ; 
Glittering host of fire-flies 
Guard my slumbers from surprise, 
And Diana's starry train, 
Sweetly scintillant again, 
Never sleep while I repose 

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On the petals of the rose ! 
Who hath balmier bed than I?" 
Quoth the brilliant Butterfly. 

"Life is but a Summer day, 
Gliding goldenly away; 
Winter comes, alas ! too soon, — 
Would it were forever June ! 
Yet, though brief my flight may be, 
Pun and frolic still for me ! 
When the sisterhood of flowers, 
Having had their gala day, 
In the chill autumnal showers, 
Sorrowfully fade away, — 
Doomed to darkness and decay,— 
Who would not prefer to die — 
What were life to such as IT' 
Quoth the flaunting Butterfly. 


Thing of beauty! brightly beaming. 

Softly through my lattice streaming, 

To my spirit thou dost seem 

Like "a sweet thought in a dream* ' - 

Linger yet a little while; 

Still my loneliness beguile! 

Brilliant sunbeam! thou dost bring 
On thy gleaming golden wing, 
Life and gladness, light and love, 
Prom the firmament above; 
Thou dost change the morning mist 
Into sparkling amethyst! 

Messenger from realms of light ! 
Thou art beautiful and bright : 

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How resplendent then is He, 
Sunbeam, who created thee, — 
Called thee from chaotic night, — 
Bade thee sparkle in His sight? 

Shining harbinger of Spring ! 
Earth, for thee, is blossoming; 
At the earliest "peep of dawn," 
In the woodland, on the lawn, 
Songs of welcome may be heard, — 
Matins of the mocking-bird. 

Welcome, bright, celestial ray! 
Where thou dwellest it is day ; 
When thou wanderest afar, 
When I hail the evening star, 
Then, sweet Sunbeam, I shall see 
But a burning type of thee ! 


"And lo, the star which they saw in the East, went before 
them till it came and stood over where the child was!" — Mat- 
thew, 7:9. 

One night, while lowly shepherd swains 

Their fleecy charge attended, 
A light shone o'er Judea's plains 

Unutterably splendid. 

Par in the dusky Orient, 

A star, unknown in story, 
Arose to flood the firmament, 

With more than morning glory. 

The clustering constellations, erst 
So gloriously gleaming, 

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Waned, when its sudden splendor burst 
Upon their paler beaming : 

And Heaven drew nearer Earth that night,- 
Plung wide its pearly portals — 

Sent forth, from all its realms of light, 
Its radiant immortals: 

They hovered in the golden air, 
Their golden censers swinging, 

And woke the drowsy shepherds there 
With their seraphic singing. 

Tet Earth, on this her gala night, 

No jubilee was keeping; 
She lay, unconscious of the light, 

In silent beauty sleeping, — 

She lay entranced, her Ethiop breast, 
So long with anguish heaving, 

The earnest of eternal rest, — 
The Christ of God receiving. 

No more shall brightest cherubim, 

And stateliest archangels, 
Symphonious, sing such choral hymn, — 

Proclaim so sweet evangels: 

No more appear that star at eve, 
Though glimpses of its glory 

Are seen by those who still believe 
The shepherds' simple story. 

In faith's clear firmament afar, — 

To Unbelief a stranger, — 
Forever glows the golden star 

That stood above the manger. • 

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Age after ago jnay roll away, 

But on Time's rapid river 
The light of its celestial ray 

Shall never cease to quiver. 

Frail barges, on the swelling tide, 

Are drifting with the ages; 
The skies grow dark, — around each bark 

A howling tempest rages! 

Pale with affright, lost helmsmen steer, 

While creaking timbers shiver; 
The breakers roar, — grim Death is near, — 

who may now deliver! 

Light, — light from the Heraldic Star 

Breaks brightly o'er the billow; 
The storm, rebuked, is fled afar, 

The pilgrim seeks his pillow. 

Lost, — lost, indeed, his heart must be, — 

His way how dark with danger, — 
Whose hooded eye may never see 

The Star above the Manger! 

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The Author. — Joseph William Holden, the son of Gover- 
nor W. W. Holden, was born in Raleigh, N. C, September 
30, 1844. He attended school in Raleigh until he reached 
his seventeenth year, when he enlisted in the Confederate 
Army and was sent to Roanoke Island. He was taken 
prisoner and remained in captivity about a year, when 
he was released on parole and returned home. His father 
at this time was editor of the Raleigh Standard, and 
Joseph became his associate. 

After his father was elected Governor, and after his 
father's impeachment, the son moved West and became 
reporter on the Leavenworth (Kansas) Times. After 
several months in the West he returned to Raleigh where 
he died soon afterward. He was twice member of the 
• General Assembly and once Speaker of the House. He 
was at one time Mayor of Raleigh. 

His fame rests on his poems, and especially his "Hat-* 
teras," which has been copied widely. Other poems of 
merit written by him are "Love's Melancholy," "Hymn," 
and "A Home Above." 


Note. — The wind king of the north challenges the torrid 
god at Hatteras. Here is the meeting place of the cold winds 
of the North and the warm winds of the South. Ten vessels 
stood idly by when the contest began, which was fearful and 
typical of the severe storms on the coast. Nine of the vessels 
were sunk in this "Golgotha of the Sea" where vessels have 
been wrecked since Sir Walter Raleigh's time, and where "scat- 
tered bones have lain and bleached for ages." 

The Wind King from the North came down, 
Nor stopped by river, mount or town, 
But like a boisterous god at play, 

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Resistless bounded on his way. 

He shook the lake and tore the wood, 

And flapped his wings in merry mood, 

Nor furled them till he spied afar 

The white caps' flash on Hatteras bar,* 

Where fierce Atlantic landward bowls 

'er treacherous sands and hidden shoals. 

He paused, then wreathed his horn of cloud 
And blew defiance, long and loud ; 
' Come up ! Come up ! thou torrid god, 
That rul'st the Southern sea, — 
Ho ! lightning-eyed and thunder-shod, 
Come wrestle here with me! 
As tossest thou the tangled cane 
111 hurl thee o'er the boiling main!" 

The angry heavens hung dark and still 
Like Arctic night on Hecla's Hill; t 
The mermaids sporting on the waves, 
Affrighted, fled to coral caves ; 
The billow checked its curling crest, 
And, trembling, sank to sudden rest; 
All ocean stilled its heaving breast, 
Reflected darkness, weird and dread, 
An inky plain the waters spread — 

Amid the elemental lull, 

When nature died and death lay dull, 

As though itself were sleeping there — 

Becalmed upon that dismal flood 

Ten fated vessels idly stood, 

And not a timber creaked ! 

* Cape Hatteras, on the coast of North Carolina, is the most 
dangerous Cape on the Atlantic Coast on account of the sand- 
bars that jut far out into the sea. 

t Mount Hecla is a volcano in Iceland. 

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Dim silence held each hollow hull, 
Save when some sailor in that night, 
Oppressed with darkness and despair, 
Some seaman, groping for the light, 
Rose up and shrieked. 
They cried like children, lost and lorn : 
"Oh, Lord,, deliver while you may! 
Sweet Jesus, drive this gloom away ! 
Forever fled, oh, lovely day ! 
I would that I were never born! ,, 
For stoutest souls were terror-thrilled, 
And warmest hearts with horror chilled. 

' ' Come up ! Come up ! thou torrid god, 
Thou lightning-eyed and thunder-shod, 
Come wrestle here with me!" 
'Twas heard and answered: "Lo, I come 
From azure Caribee X 
To drive thee cowering to thy home 
And melt its walls of frozen foam !" 

From every isle and mountain dell, 

From plains of pathless chapparel, 

From tidebuilt bars, where sea birds dwell 

He drew his lurid legions forth — 

And sprang to meet the white-plumed North 

Can mortal tongue in song convey 
The fury of that fearful fray? 
How ships were splintered at a blow — 
Sails shivered into sheets of snow — 
And seaman hurled to death below ! 
Two gods commingling, bolt and blast. 
The huge waves on each other cast, 
And bellowed o 'er the raging waste ; 
Then sped, like harnessed steeds afar, 
Amid the midnight din of war ! 

t Caribee, a sea southeast of the Gulf of Mexico. 

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False Hatteras ! when the cyclone came 
Your waves leapt up with hoarse acclaim 
And ran and wrecked yon argosy! 
Fore'er nine sank ! That lone bulk stands 
Embedded in thy yellow sands — 
An hundred hearts in death then stilled, 
And yet its ribs, with corpses filled, 
Are now caressed by thee ! 

Smile on, smile on, thou watery hell, 

And toss those skulls upon thy shore ; 

The sailor's widow knows thee well; 

His children beg from door to door 

And shiver while they strive to tell 

How thou hast robbed the wretched poor ! 

Yon lipless skull shall speak for me, 

This is Golgotha of the Sea ! 

And its keen hunger is the same 

In winter's frost or summer's flame! 

When life was young, adventure sweet, 

I came with Walter Raleigh's fleet, 

But here my scattered bones have lain 

And bleached for ages by the main ! 

Though lonely once, strange folks have come, 

Till peopled is my barren home, 

Enough are here. Oh, heed the cry, 

Ye white-winged strangers sailing by! 

The bark that lingers on this wave, 

Will find its smiling but a grave ! 

Then, tardy, mariner, turn and flee, 
A myriad wrecks are on the lea! 
With swelling sail and sloping mast, 
Accept kind Heaven's propitious blast! 
Oh, ship, sail on! Oh, ship, sail fast, 
Till thou, Golgotha's quick-sands past, 
Hath gained the open sea at last. 

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The Author. — Emma A. Lehman is a native of Salem, 
N. C, and a member of the Moravian Church. She was 
educated at Salem Female Academy, and in 1864 she en- 
tered the Academy as a teacher. Nearly a half century of 
continuous service as teacher in that famous institution is 
a fine testimonial of her worth. Since 1878, however, she 
has had charge of the senior class and has filled the Chair 
of English in the college. She is a real nature-lover, and 
her interest even in "the meanest flower that blows' ' led 
her to discover a new plant which was named by the State 
Botanist of New York "Monotropsis Lehmani." She has 
written a great deal. In 1889 she spent the summer in 
Europe, and later published a sketch of her travels. She 
has written poems for various publications. In 1904 the 
Grafton Press published a small volume for her called 
"Poems." The selections given below are taken from it. 


Where were the flowers the long winter through? 
. What were they doing while the year was new? 
They were busily working, embroidering their robes, 
Coloring each leaf-bud and folding it close. 
The Hepatica labored a long, long time 
To perfect its tints for the genial sunshine; 
It planned, and trimmed, and cheerily wrought 
Its delicate leaves in the springtime sought. 

The Blood-root gathered its juices so red, 
And stored them up, while apparently dead. 
The Violet shyly and modestly sat, 
Blending the shades for its new spring hat. 
Its perfumes were stored in numberless cells, 

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Ready to spread o 'er its blossoming bells. 

It chose its own corner in which to bide 

When spring winds should summon to every hillside 

The Butterfly courier was preening his wing 
To herald the approach of the Fairy Queen. 
He practiced a tune caught from Oberon's lute, 
And gave its first notes while the fields still were mute ; 
Queen Flora was dozing and dreaming all day, 
Her work being done by each busy fay. 
Her servants were waiting to marshal her clan, 
Whenever her signal was heard in the glen. 

Ten thousand buds were waiting to dress 
The trees in their springtime loveliness; 
The bees sent out in the early dawn 
To know the date of the opening morn ; 
The Prime Minister consulted the Sun 
To know if the work of the flowers was done — 
To ask if old Boreas had gone to his lair, 
To see if Jack Frost still lurked in the air. 

When all was ready the signal was given 
To every spring flower found under Heaven. 
They sprang to their places in happiest mood, 
And in perfected beauty all waiting they stood. 
The South Wind swung his baton around, 
And all joined the chorus above the ground. 
The summer flowers still waited below, 
Eager to hear their summons to go. 
The Orchestra of Nature burst forth into play 
Its anthem of welcome to April and May. 

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Silently, patiently, steadily down, 
Covering the roofs of the gray old town — 
Down from the leaden, exhaustless sky, 
Feathery, filmy, the soft flakes fly, 
Clothing with ermine each unsightly stone, 
While the wind dies out in a sobbing moan. 

Vistas and arches of marble abound, 
Cherubs and statues seem hovering around, 
Bushes are bordered inch-deep with pearl, 
While faster and faster the soft flakes whirl. 
The brown old earth lies quiet and still 
While bridal robes deck each far-off hill. 

The virgin snow! how pure it lies, 
Icy and chaste, as it fell from the skies ! 
No earth-born stain disfigures the sight, 
Emblem of purity — stainless as light, 
Wrapping the earth in its mantle deep, 
Whence the gentle snowdrops will coyly creep. 

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The Author — Marie Batterham Lindesay, second daugh- 
ter of William Batterham, was born in Walsoken, Norfolk, 
England. The Batterham family emigrated to North Caro- 
lina in 1881. Soon after coming to this State the subject 
of this sketch married in Asheville, which has been her 
home for many years. She is now sojourning in Chatta- 
nooga, Term. She has published one volume of poems, 
and is now preparing to publish a second volume. 


By the placid Swanannoa 

Lived the red man years gone by, 

Pished and hunted, smoked and slumbered, 
Sheltered by the mountains high. 

In his wigwam, by the streamlet, 
Dwelt his squaw of dusky face, 

Reared his young ones, lithe and active, 
For the field and for the chase. 

Little reck'd he of the rumors 

Of another day to be, 
Of a strange and wondrous pale-face 

Coming o'er the mighty sea. 

Fished and hunted, smoked and slumbered, 

While the river murmured on, 
Careless as its peaceful waters, 

Till his fleeting day was gone. 

By the placid Swanannoa 

Lives another race to-day: 
Red man, wigwam, squaw, and papoose 

Into silence passed away. 

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Sound it out o'er many waters, 

Voice it o'er the land to-day 
To old Eden's sons and daughters 

Wheresoe'er they dwell or stray; 
Paint it on a banner golden, 

Fling it wide to every breeze, 
Tell it to the cities olden, 

Tropic isles and frozen seas. 

Blazon it with trumpet voices 

Where they build the men-o'-war, 
Where brisk industry rejoices, 

Ever planning on before; 
Where the mighty armies drilling 

With the sabre, gun, and drum — 
All a nation's ardor filling — 

That the Day of Peace must come. 

Keenest swords to plowshares beaten, 

And to pruning hooks their spears, 
Where the waving acres sweeten, 

And the vine in plenty bears. 
Youth no more to train for battles, 

Men no more to fight and die, 
Where the cannon's thunder rattles 

And the bullet's "ping" is nigh. 

Sown the earth with tumults deadly, 

Strewn the air with groans and cries, 
While grim Passion's cruel medley 

Darkens horror to the skies — 
Sweeping to us grand and stately, 

Nears a day we all may see, 
When we shall, rejoicing greatly, 

From the lust of war be free. 

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"My papa is a drunkard, 

My grandpa runs a bar, 
My mother takes in washing — 

And this is where we are : 
There's just a bite to eat at home, 

And mostly it's a crust. 
I wish we had a turkey-spread, — 

I'd eat until I bust. 

"The children never can be clothed, 

For mother's at the tub — 
And from sun-up until sun-down 

It's wash and rinse and rub: 
It's Johnny here, and Johnny there, 

And hurry, buy some soap, 
And tend the baby, big and small, 

Or else an end of rope ! 

"The money filters slowly by, 
And mother's wore and ill; 
I wonder why — for once up-town 

I peeped in grandpa's till; 
'Twas running full of money, 

Quarters, dollars, dimes. 
I wish I was a man — I'd let 
The women vote — sometimes!" 


As we lose the fever and folly 
That men have miscalled youth, 

There is nothing that counts but goodness, 
And nothing worth telling but truth. 

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The Author. — Samuel Harley Lyle, Jr., was born in 
Franklin, Macon County, North Carolina, May 14, 1889. 
He was educated at Franklin High School and the Univer- 
sity of North Carolina, graduating from the latter institu- 
tion in the class of 1908. The following year he became 
editor of the Franklin Press and manager of the Franklin 
Press Publishing Company. He has published three vol- 
umes of poetry, " Leaves of Life," "Ways of Men," and 
"By-Ways." His poems have appeared in The North 
Carolina Review, Watson's Jeffersonian, The Atlanta Jour- 
nal, and The Charlotte Observer. 


Rippling streams and song of birds, 

And crimson with the gray; 
The morn bursts bright in the dawn's first light — 

Little girl, good-day! 

Evening calm and low of kine, 

And the flash of a swallow's flight; 

Whispering breeze in the twilight trees — 
Little girl, good-night! 


let us away to the hills to-day, 
Just you and me, my dear; 

Away from the life of worldly strife, 
For Autumn again is here. 


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^ i in the air, and sunlight fair 

' alls over the brooding hills; 

P jie lure of the wild holds me, Earth's child, 

In a grasp that quickens and thrills. 

O let us away to the hills to-day, 

Just you and me, my dear, — 
Sunlight and love, trees whispering above, — 

The Autumn again is here! 


Come fare ye forth, my jolly lads, 

Come fare ye forth with me ; 
We're off for the land of the Southern sun, 

And the blue of the Southern sea. 

The blue of the Southern sea, my lads, 
And the glint of Spanish gold, — 

Throw full the sail to the Southward breeze, 
As did Hawkins and Drake of old. 

As did Hawkins and Drake of old, my lads, 

With whom we swept the Main; 
For though Drake is gone and Hawkins dead, 
We'll down the Spaniard again. 

Well down the Spaniard again, my lads, 
And well waste his stolen lands; 

For English brawn and English hearts 
Ne'er lost at Spanish hands. 

So hoist ye all the sail, my lads, 

Put out the ship to sea; 
We're off again for the Spanish Main, 

And the spoil of victory! 

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When sunset shadows fall across v. 


The glade, and bees are homeward bound, 
And all the forest rings aloud 


With evening 's symphony of sound ; Y* 

When birds are singing good-night songs, 
And swallows come on circling wing, 

And from the marsh the frogs' deep lays 
In hoarse and rumbling cadence ring, — 

Tis then I lie beneath the trees, 

Where golden moonbeams glint and glance ; 
And from the forest glides a troupe 
Of fairies in a mystic dance. 

In maddest riot of reckless glee 
They whirl and trip about the vale ; 

And some are dandies in fine silks, 
And some are knights in tested mail. 

And little lady-fairies, too, 
Are there, pretty beyond impeach ; 

And they can coquet with a fan, 
Or blush before a whispered speech. 

Each little lady has her knight, 
Each knight his winsome fairy lass; 

Their voices rise in gayest mirth, 
Tripping about the warm, sweet grass. 

All night beneath the brooding moon 
The fairies play, and pleasure rings, 

Till at the dawn they slip away, 
And leave the world to baser things. 




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A lashing fringe of dripping hedge 

Along the wet roadway, 
The night shuts in with thunder's din, 

And lightnings flame and play. 

A wanderer over the world am I, 

With never a tie to bind; 
I sing a song as I swing along, 

Nor care for storm or wind. 

Oh, what avails the wild wind's roar, 

Or lightning's flash and flare? 
Somewhere, I know, a light burns low, 

And a woman is waiting there. 

Somewhere beyond the Hills of Doubt, 
In the Valley "Where Dreams Come True, 

Flowers are bright as the starlit night, 
And skies are clear and blue. 

The Past is dead in the dust of things, 

The Present an empty cry ; 
We may weep to-night, but the morrow's light 

Will bring a cloudless sky. 

Beyond the hills a light burns low, 

And a woman is waiting there ; 
A laugh for the rain, the stress and the pain, 
The morrow, I know, dawns fair ! 

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For these, the world-applauded ones, the few 

Who dream, and, waiting, realize the dream 
In full fruition, finding all things true 

In life; the seekers of the rainbow gleam, 
"Whose feet have trod the smooth and rose-strewn way 

That lies through lands of joy, and leads along 
The fields that bloom with everlasting May, — 

For these, Life's favored ones, I have no song. 

Tis those who strive, and find the striving gall, 
Replete with failure all the toiling years, 

Yet face the blows and smile, knowing the fall, 
And have no part with cravens or with tears ; 

The victors they of Life, counting the cost, 

Who fight, unbeaten still, when all is lost. 

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The Author. — John Charles McNeill was born in Scot- 
land County, North Carolina, July 26, 1874. Spring Hill, 
the name of the community in which he was born and 
reared, is in the heart of the original Scotch settlement 
of North Carolina. McNeill's grandfathers emigrated 
from Argyleshire, Scotland, about the beginning of the 
nineteenth century. John Charles was educated at "Wake 
Forest, graduating at the head of his class. He remained 
one year after graduating and received the degree of 
Master of Arts. In 1900 he was elected Assistant Profes- 
sor of English in Mercer University, Georgia, but after a 
year he returned to North Carolina to practice law, hav- 
ing received his license in 1897. He opened his office in 
Laurinburg, but the legal profession had no charms for 
him. The Century Magazine was already publishing his 
verses, and the inclination was to follow his pen. After 
the death of Erwin Avery, John Charles was called to the 
Charlotte Observer. His verses promptly commanded 
the praise of readers throughout the State, and he was 
unanimously awarded the Patterson Cup for the best lit- 
erary production of the year. Soon he published his 
first volume entitled, " Songs Merry and Sad," from which 
these selections are taken by permission of the publishers, 
the Stone & Barringer Company, of Charlotte. The bright, 
youthful spirit, however, was soon brought to an earthly 
end. He suffered for months with an incurable malady, 
dying October 17, 1907, in his thrity-third year, at the 
old home in Scotland County. After his death a second 
volume was published under the title of "Lyrics Prom 
Cotton Land," containing many poems in negro dialect. 


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T will not be long before they hear 

The bull-bat on the hill, 
And in the valley through the dusk 

The pastoral whippoorwill. 
A few more friendly suns will call 

The bluets through the loam 
And star the lanes with buttercups 
Away down home. 

" Knee-deep !" from reedy places 
Will sing the river frogs. 

The terrapins will sun themselves 
On all the jutting logs. 

The angler's cautious oar will leave 
A trail of drifting foam 

Along the shady currents 
Away down home. 

The mocking-bird will feel again 

The glory of his wings, 
And wanton through the balmy air 

And sunshine while he sings. 
With a new cadence in his call, 

The glint-wing 'd crow will roam 
Prom field to newly-furrowed field 
Away down home. 

When dogwood blossoms mingle 
With the maple's modest red, 
And sweet arbutus wakes at last 
From out her winter's bed, 
'Twould not seem strange at all to meet 

A dryad or a gnome, 
Or Pan or Psyche in the woods 
Away down home. 

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Then come with me, thou weary heart ! 

Forget thy brooding ills, 
Since God has come to walk among 

His valleys and His hills ! 
The mart will never miss thee, 

Nor the scholar's dusty tome 
And the Mother waits to bless thee 
Away down home. 

(Died October 8, 1904) 

For him, who in a hundred battles stood 

Scorning the cannon's mouth, 
Grimy with flame and red with foeman's blood, 

For thy sweet sake, South : 

Who, wise as brave, yielded his conquered sword 

At a vain war's surcease, 
And spoke, thy champion still, the statesman's word 

In the calm halls of peace ; 

Who pressed the ruddy wine to thy faint lips, 

Where thy torn body lay, 
And saw afar time's white insailing ships 

Bringing a happier day: 

Oh, mourn for him, dear land that gave him birth ! 

Bow low thy sorrowing head! 
Let thy seared leaves fall silent on the earth 

Whereunder he lies dead ! 

In field and halls, in valor and in grace, 

In wisdom's livery, 
Gentle and brave, he moved with knightly pace, 

A worthy son of thee ! 

4 \i*5iJ\J\9 

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The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes, 
O, month of memories ! 
Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of, 
Old joy, dead hope, dear love, 

I see thee stand where all thy sisters meet 
To cast down at thy feet 
The garnered largess of the fruitful year, 
And on thy cheek a tear. 

Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf 
To blind the eyes of grief; 

Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit 
That sorrow may be mute; 

A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep, 
Ere the gray dusk may creep 
Sober and sad along thy dusty ways, 
Like a lone nun, who prays; 

High and faint-heard thy passing migrant calls; 
Thy lazy lizard sprawls 

On his gray stone, and many slow winds creep 
About thy hedge, asleep ; 

The sun swings farther toward his love, the south, 
To kiss her glowing mouth; 

And Death, who steals among thy purpling bowers, 
Is deeply hid in flowers. 

"Would that thy streams were Lethe, and might flow 
Where lotus blossoms blow, 
And all the sweets wherewith thy riches bless 
Might hold no bitterness ! 

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Would, in thy beauty, we might all forget 
Dead days and old regret, 

And through thy realm might fare us forth to roam, 
Having no thought for home ! 

And yet I feel, beneath thy queen's attire, 
Woven of blood and fire, 
Beneath the golden glory of thy charm 
Thy mother heart beats warm, 

And if, mayhap, a wandering child of thee, 
Weary of land and sea, 

Should turn him homeward from his dreamer's quest 
To sob upon thy breast, 

Thine arm would fold him tenderly, to prove 
How thine eyes brimmed with love, 
And thy dear hand, with all a mother's care, 
Would rest upon his hair. 


Note. — The present prosy name of Lumber River was con- 
sidered by the poet as a corruption of the appropriate Indian 
name, "Lumbee," meaning "crooked." 

Down on the Lumbee River 

Where the eddies ripple cool 
Your boat, I know, glides stealthily 

About some shady pool. 
The summer's heats have lulled asleep 
The fish-hawk's chattering noise, 
And all the swamp lies hushed about 

You sunburnt boys. 

You see the minnow 's waves that rock 
The cradled lily leaves. 

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Prom a far field some farmer's song, 
Singing among his sheaves, 

Comes mellow to you where you sit, 
Each man with boatman's poise, 

There, in the shimmering water lights, 
You sunburnt boys. 

I know your haunts : each gnarly bole 

That guards the waterside, 
Each tuft of flags and rushes where 

The river reptiles hide, 
Each dimpling nook wherein the bass 

His eager life employs 
Until he dies — the captive of 

You sunburnt boys. 

You will not — will you? — soon forget 

When I was one of you, 
Nor love me less that time has borne 

My craft to currents new; 
Nor shall I ever cease to share 

Your hardships and your joys, 
Robust, rough-spoken, gentle-hearted 

Sunburnt boys. 


'Tis the crumple of footfalls soft in the snow, 
The crunch, crunch, crunch, where the embers glow. 
Tis the flutter of snow winds, stirring the trees; 
The murmur of distant, beckoning seas. 
Whatever the heart of a man may desire, 
He sees or he hears in the winter night's fire. 

Alas, for the flickering dreams that flare 
One moment, and pass to the upper air! 

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But the darker the night the brighter the gleam, 
And the sadder the heart the gladder the dream. 
The lonelier he who may muse at the fire, 
The sweeter his vision of all his desire. 

Alas, for gray ashes and smoke that is fled, 

As soul flees from body when dreams all are dead! 

But between the wing'd smoke and the bed of gray 

Life mounting on death, the eager flame flashes. 
And upward untiring doth climb and aspire — 
Man's emblem and nature's — the winter night's fire. 


When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion, 

Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod, 
We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean, 

A great gray hush, like the shadow of God. 

The sky dome cut with its compass in sunder 
A circle of sea from the darkened land, — 

A circle of tremulous waste and wonder, 
O'er which one groped with a childish hand. 

The true stars came to their stations in heaven, 
The false stars shivered deep down in the sea, 

And the white crests went like monsters, driven 
By winds that never would let them be, 

And there, where the elements mingled and muttered, 
We stood, each man with a lone dumb heart, 

Full of the vastness that never was uttered 
By symbol of words or by echo of art. 

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The Author. — Abraham Forest Morehead was the 
youngest son of John Morehead, of Rockingham County, 
a Revolutionary soldier. He was born on the 28th of 
November, 1814, and graduated at the University of North 
Carolina as the valedictorian of his class. He obtained his 
license to practice law and located in Greensboro, but a 
few months afterward he died in the twenty-second year 
of his age. Of course his short career furnishes very little 
for the historian other than his poems. But his ancestors 
on his paternal and maternal sides are prominent in the 
history of the State and the Nation. Other poems that he 
published are, "The Mississippi/ ' "The Genius of Dan," 
"Mountain Eclogue,' ' "Lines Pound on His Table," and 
"Conscience, Reflection, and Repentance." 


Note. — The Dan River flows through Rockingham County, 
and the hills gradually rise above the river until the Blue Ridge 
Mountains are reached. No section of North Carolina below 
the mountains is more picturesque than the hills of Dan in 
Rockingham County. It was this landscape that inspired the 

The world is not one garden spot, 

One pleasure ground for man; 
Pew are the spots that intervene 

Such as the Hills of Dan ! 

Though fairer prospects greet mine eyes 

In nature's partial plan, 
Yet I am bound by stronger ties 

To love the Hills of Dan. 


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The breezes that around them play, 
And the bright streams they fan, 

Are loved as scenes of childhood's day, 
Amid the Hills of Dan. 

Here, too, the friends of early days, 

Their fated courses ran; 
And now they find a resting place 

Amid the Hills of Dan. 

Ye saw the twilight of my dawn, 

When first my life began; 
And ye shall see that light withdrawn, 

My native Hills of Dan. 

Whatever fortune may ensue, 

In life 's short, changeful span, 
Oft mem'ry shall turn back to view 

My native Hills of Dan. 

The love that warms this youthful breast 

Shall glow within the man ; 
And when I slumber, may I rest 

Amid the Hills of Dan. 


The famous old Bards of antiquity say 
Each object terrene has a quick 'ning fay, 

Like the soul which animates man ; 
They teach there are spirits in oceans and seas, 
In mountains and rivers, in forests and trees, 
And why may not I, with such warrants as these, 

Attribute a Genius to Dan? 

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Oh, yes, there are spirits wherever the mind 
Amid the wide compass of Nature can find 

Aught that gives pleasure to scan, — 
It shows its own soul with the charm it enjoys, 
And when it holds converse, tho' wanting a voice, 
The language of feeling is all it employs ; 

And such is my Genius of Dan. 

Oh lovely creation! tho* fancied thou art, 
Yet few real friends are so dear to my heart, 

Since our acquaintance began; 
For truly I deem thee as wholly mine own — 
A part of myself, coming from me alone, 
Who gave thee a being, and gave thee a throne, 

Aid called thee the Genius of Dan. 

Yes, well can I mind when concealed on the banks 
I drew to my ambush the bright finny ranks, 

Then homeward exulting ran; 
And while my acknowledgments justly knew, 
For this my good fortune to some one were due, 
Some secret interpreter held to my view 

Bright imaged, — the Genius of Dan. 

I stood on the hills and surveyed from my height 
All the beauties that Summer displayed to my sight,- 

The bright flowing stream as it ran, — 
The wide-spreading wood and the corn-laden field, 
The peace and contentment that Plenty revealed, 
And who by some spirit these blessings could yield 1 

I thought 'twas the Genius of Dan. 

There rose in the midst of that beautiful scene 
A village whose aspect was dreary I ween 

When first its existence began; 
But now all that lonely appearance has fled, 

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And beauty, and Talents, and Riches instead, 
Awoke by the Genius of Dan. 

Accept, lovely Spirit, this tribute of lays, 
This first feeble effort — a hymn in thy praise, 
From a son of thy mountain clan, — 
And believe me, I love thee, whatever thou art; 
From mem'ry thine image shall never depart, 
Till some of thy daughters steal off my heart, 
And rob thee — bright Genius of Dan. 

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The Author. — James Chester Rockwell was born near 
Whiteville, in Columbus County, N. C, in 1868, the son of 
Capt. Henry C. Rockwell and Sarah Powell Rockwell. His 
early education was received in the local schools and un- 
der the late Professor W. G. Quackenbush, of Laurinburg. 
Among the poets embraced in his reading were Burns, 
Poe, Ryan, Hayne, Hill, and Boner, upon all of whom 
there are extant poems or essays among Mr. Rockwell's 
writings. Against odds that would have discouraged a 
less brilliant student, he acquired also a splendid knowl- 
edge of Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and German. He wrote 
verses from his early youth, and most of his poems 
were written before he was nineteen years of age. At 
twenty he was a theological student in Louisville, Ky. 
Here his health first failed, and later in his pastorate at 
Morristown, Tenn., there was no hopeful improvement. 
He died in his twenty-sixth year, leaving a widow (who 
was Miss Loula Ayres, of Marion Co., S. C.,) two sons, and 
a daughter, who now reside in Asheville, N. C. The selec- 
tions here given indicate in some degree the young poet's 
power of expression and the range of his gifts. " Night,' ' 
an exquisite word-picture, and "She Is My Queen," a 
pleasing bit of playfulness, were written at the age of sev- 
enteen, the other selections at the age of eighteen years. 


The twilight puts her soft gray hand 

Upon the pulse of day; 
A silence falls o'er all the land, 

The daylight dies away. 
Drawn by the breeze of eventide, 

Upon her phantom car, 
She climbs the darksome mountain side, 

And lights the signal star. 

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Then gleams afar another light — 

A glowing flame the skies; 
Across the silver sea the Night 

On dusky pinion flies. 
The daylight and the eventide 

Like fleeting dreams have flown; 
With sceptre swaying far and wide, 

The Night sits on the throne. 


He came and went. Why question further, 

If he performed his mission well? 
For he who judgeth all things rightly, 
Alone can tell. 

This much we know : that he was faithful 

And e 'er on duty was intent. 
Ask me no more. This is his story : 
He came and went. 


The sweetest songs are those that spring 
Prom hearts that bleed, and, bleeding, sing ; 
Through songs like these doth ever roll 
The mystic music of the soul. 


If we have weal, if we have woe, 
If we have rights, if we have wrongs, 
The world must all our feelings know — 
We tell our stories in our songs. 

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Her sweet blue eyes — I see them still — 
They haunt me through the distance? 

Strive to forget them, if I will, 
They conquer all resistance. 

Her dainty form — a dream of grace- 
Flits past me in my dreaming; 

I see a smile upon her face — 
Her blue eyes brightly beaming. 

And 0, I love, — no tongue can tell 

The power of my passion; 
I can but love her, for — ah, well, 

To love her is the fashion. 

And I — ah, me, I am at best 

A lover 'mid a dozen; 
And I but worship with the rest — 

She is my baby cousin. 

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The Author. — James Biddle Shepard was born on No- 
vember 14, 1815, in New Bern, N. C. He was a son of 
William Biddle Shepard of that place, and wife, Mary 
Blount, of "Elmwood," Pasquotank County. He was 
educated at the University of North Carolina, and grad- 
uated with the first honors of his class in 1834. Later he 
studied law and was admitted to the bar. He was State 
Senator from Wake County in 1842, and a Eepresentative 
in 1844. At one time he was United States District At- 
torney for North Carolina, but was "too wealthy to un- 
dergo the drudgery of the bar." He was a Democrat in 
politics, and his party nominated him for Governor in 
1846, but the Whig nominee, William A. Graham, defeated 
him in the election which followed. Mr. Shepard married 
Frances Donnell, of New Bern, and left an only son, John 
Eobert Donnell Shepard, who has resided in Paris, France, 
for some years past. James B. Shepard died in Ealeigh 
on the 17th of June, 1871, and is buried in the eastern end 
of the old City Cemetery, along with numerous members 
of his family, the remains of several of whom he had 
caused to be brought from the eastern part of the State, 
for reinterment at Raleigh, several months before his 


Note.— Pilot Mountain, one of nature's wonders, is located in 
the eastern part of Surry County, North Carolina. It rises, an 
isolated pile in the midst of a plain, to an elevation of over 
1,500 feet. The pinnacle, which is over 200 feet high, is an 
almost perpendicular rock wall with an area on the summit of 
about two acres. This mountain can be seen for sixty or sev- 
enty miles, and was called Pilot by the Indians because it 
served as a guide in their hunting and war routes. 


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All-shadowing Pilot ! high, and lone, and cold, 
Thou rear'st thy form in grandeur, and the light 

Which gilds thy brow at sunset, as of old, 
Shall be to thee a diadem all bright, 

Amid the ages distant and untold, 

To guide the pilgrim's dim and failing sight 

Along thy battlements. And now the sun 

Goes down behind the mountains — day is gone. 

'Tis night upon the Pilot ! come and see 

The startling of the mighty pile ; 
Look how the lightnings glance — and now the free 

Wild winds are rushing o 'er this earth-born isle, 
Thrown up amid the wide and desert sea 

The clouds are gathering, and no lovely smile 
Of the bright stars is ours. Hark ! the tone 
Of the loud thunder from its flashing throne ! 

Night on the Pilot ! Prom the stormy west 
The clouds are mustering, and their banners gleam 

In shadowy glory, and their folds are dress 'd 
In the mild livery of Orion's beam. 

And now each glen and lofty mountain's crest 

Grow bright beneath the moon's resplendent stream 

Of living radiance. Now the light is gone, 

And darkness girds us with her rayless zone. 

The morn is up — the bright and dewy morn — 
And the darkness rolls from off the lofty pile, 

And voices, deep and wild, and mountain born, 
Go up in thankfulness ; for now the smile 

Of day is on us; now the huntsman's horn 
Winds its rich numbers through each deep defile, 

Startling the eagle from his high abide 

Mid the rough crags where mortal foot ne 'er trod. 

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Note. — The Roanoke River rises in Virginia and enters 
North Carolina near the foot of the Blue Ridge, where it is 
known as the Dan. Later, it flows back into Virginia and 
returns to North Carolina as the Roanoke. Two famous states- 
men lived near this river, John Randolph, of Virginia, and 
Nathaniel Macon, of North Carolina, who were life-long friends. 

I stand upon the banks of the proud Roanoke. 

Father of waters ! thou dost roll along 
With a glad music ; and the lightning stroke 

Of time is on thee, yet the splendid throng 
Of thy far-sweping waves is all unbroke, 

Save when the boatman, with his mellow songs, 
Speeds o'er their bosom, laden with a store 
Of wealth, late gathered from thy fertile shore. 

And who tacked thy name,t old glorious stream, 
Unto his own, tho' sometimes strange and wild, 

In his mad moments when he spoke by steam, 
Playing the statesman now, and now the child, 

Was yet like thee (when Reason's steady beam 
Shone full upon him), deep, and strong, and clear, 
What shield could parry his avenging spear? 

The meteor of a season. We did gaze 
Upon the splendors of his fiery way, 

As through stars, undazzled by their blaze, 
He sought the pristine fount of perfect day. 

The day of Truth. And still the unclouded ray 
Of Fame's high sun upon his actions play, 

Gilding his name and garnishing his tomb, 

Where fadeless myrtle and bright laurel bloom. 

t John Randolph of Roanoke. 

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And there was one } whose light was fixed and clear, 
Whose deeds were seen by all men, and whose fame 

Is all-enduring. Bow we lowly here, 
For 'tis the spot where honest Macon came, 

Like a ripe sheaf, unto his honored bier! 
Who ever went down with a brighter name 

To death's long slumbers? Hallowed be the rest 

Of him who sleeps below, by millions blest ! 

Like the mild star of evening, he arose 

On the horizon of his country, when 
Her soil was trampled by beleaguering foes, 

And the dread war sounds filled each hill and glen ; 
And like the star which sets at evening's close, 

Was his declension. Streams of fadeless light 

Still gild the heavens which hide him now from 

t Nathaniel Macon of North Carolina. 

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The Author. — Benjamin Sledd was born in Bedford, 
County, Virginia, August 27, 1864. He graduated at 
Washington and Lee University in 1886. After leaving 
this institution he spent one year at Johns Hopkins Uni- 
versity, and in 1888 became Professor of English in Wake 
Forest College, North Carolina, which position he still 
holds. Professor Sledd is a real teacher, and for nearly a 
quarter of a century has been instructing the young men 
of Wake Forest College and aiding them to interpret the 
best in English literature. John Charles McNeill was his 
pupil, and the pupil receiving encouragement and direc- 
tion from the teacher-poet lived only long enough to see 
his own verse appreciated and that of his teacher honored. 
Professor Sledd has edited text-books and contributed 
much to the literature of the South. Two volumes of 
poems have been published — "From Cliff and Scaur* ' in 
1897, and "The Watchers of the Hearth" in 1901. Now 
in the hands of his publishers, to appear next year, are 
two other volumes: "Old South Idylls" and "Margaret 
and Miriam: a Book of Verse for All Who Love Little 
Children." The following poem is taken from "The 
Watchers of the Hearth": 


No more of work ! Yet ere I seek my bed, 
Noiseless into the children's room I go, 
With its four little couches all a-row, 

And bend a moment over each dear head. 

Those soft, round arms on the pillow spread, 

Those dreaming lips babbling more than we know, 
One tearful, smothered sigh of baby woe — 

Fond words of chiding, would they were unsaid! 


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And while on each moist brow a kiss I lay, 

With tremulous rapture grown almost to pain, 
Close at my side I hear a whispered name : — 
Our long-lost babe, who with the dawning came, 

And in the midnight went from us again. 

And with bowed head one good-night more I said. 


Vaguer it seems than a vision 
Dreamed in an hour unknown, — 

A grave with pines overshadowed, 
And strange wild life overgrown. 

The first of earth's dark secrets 
By curious childhood found, 

Much did I wonder what meaning 
Lay hid in that little mound. 

And once — still must I remember 

The dreary autumn day — 
All trembling with nameless terror, 

I ceased from childish play, 

Saying, "Death — what is it, mother V 9 

Sadly she made reply, 
Clasping her arms about me: 

"Thou at find out by and by." 

But life's first perfect gladness, 

I never felt it more, 
Nor ever again was the sunshine 

So sweet as it was before. 

For long, long years I waited, 
The answer still I wait, 

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And hear but darkly murmur 
The riddling lips of fate. 

When I joy in the strength of morning, 

And feel that life is good — 
Lo, right athwart my pathway 

That fateful mound in the wood. 

And when I sadly question 

What way beyond may lie, 
A silent voice makes answer, 

' 'Thou 'It know all by and by." 


All day it shook the land — grim battle's thunder tread; 
And fields at morning green, at eve are trampled red. 
But now, on the stricken scene, twilight and quiet fall; 
Only, from hill to hill, night's tremulous voices call; 
And comes from far along, where campfires warning burn, 
The dread, hushed sound which tells of morning's sad re- 

Timidly nature awakens; the stars come out overhead, 
And a flood of moonlight breaks like a voiceless prayer for 

the dead. 
And steals the blessed wind, like Odin's fairest daughter, 
In viewless ministry, over the fields of slaughter; 
Soothing the smitten life, easing the pang of death, 
And bearing away on high the passing warrior's breath. 

Two youthful forms are lying apart from the thickest fray, 
The one in Northern blue, the other in Southern gray. 
Around his lifeless foeman the arms of each are pressed, 
And the head of one is pillowed upon the other's breast. 

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As if two loving brothers, wearied with work and play, 
Had fallen asleep together, at close of the summer day. 
Foemen were they, and brothers? — Again the battle's din, 
With its sullen, cruel answer, from far away breaks in. 


Note. — Our histories tell the story of the Lost Colony and 
Virginia Dare. No one knows what became of that colony, 
and the fate of the little girl born on Roanoke Island is still a 
mystery. However, many legends are told concerning her, 
chief of which is that of "The Milk White Doe." 

The hunter by his lonely fire 
Wakens in sweet, unknown desire, 
To watch by the dim, delusive light 
What seems a woman in raiment white, 
Among the forest shadows go : — 
Lingering it goes, and backward turns, 
Like some sad spirit that vainly yearns 
To break the bonds of its voiceless woe ; 
But the light flares up from the dying brands, 
And gazing out of the darkness stands 
Only a milk-white doe. 
A moment he marks her large dark eyes 
Gazing in mournful human wise, 
Then falters and sinks the faithless light. 
Again the gleam as of raiment white, 
The woods are stirred with a footfall slight ; 
And like the dawn- wind wandering by, 
The presence fades with a deep drawn sigh, 
As breaks a far-heard, phantom sound 
Of galloping steed and baying hound — 
Then only the silence and the night. 

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Like a mist of the sea at morn it comes, 
Gliding among the fisher-homes, — 
The vision of a woman fair j 
And every eve beholds her there 

Above the topmost dune, 
With fluttering robe and streaming hair, 
Seaward gazing in dumb despair, 
Like one who begs of the waves a boon. 

Lone ghost of the daring few who came 
And, passing, left but a tree-carved name 

And the mystery of Croatan : 
And out of our country's dawning years 
I hear the weeping of woman's tears: 
With a woman 's eyes I dimly scan, 
Day after day the far blue verge, 
And pray of the loud unpitying surge, 
And every wind of Heaven, to urge 
The sails that alone can succor her fate, — 
The wigwam dark and the savage mate, 
The love more cruel than crudest hate, — 
Still burns on her cheek that fierce hot breath,- 
And the shame too bitter to hide in death. 

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The Author. — Hersey Everett Spence was born in South 
Mills, Camden County, North Carolina, June 12, 1882. He 
was prepared for college at South Mills High School and 
entered Trinity College, Durham, N. C, in the fall of 
1903, and graduated in 1907. He remained at Trinity 
College one year after graduating, and in 1908 received 
the degree of Master of Arts. The following year he en- 
tered the ministry and served one year as pastor of Man- 
gum Street Methodist Church, Durham, N. C. In 1909 he 
was elected Assistant Professor of English at Trinity Col- 
lege, which position he still holds. Much of his verse has 
been published in the Charlotte Observer, the Raleigh 
News and Observer, and in the Trinity Archive. 


Alone she sits, 
Silent and thoughtful, by the fire's pale gleams, 
While through her brain the fitful mem'ry flits 
Of long-departed dreams. 

The trickling tears 
Plow down her furrowed face. Sad mem'ry grieves 
Her lonely heart with thoughts of other years 
And other Christmas eves. 

Her childhood days — 
She dreams of them, and of her children, too, 
Once bright 'ning home-life with their winning ways ; 
To-night — so far from view. 

And one doth pray, 
For that dear mother on this Christmas night : 

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Keep Thou the weary feet in that strait way 
That leadeth unto light. 

Those withered hands, 
So worn and weary with Life's tiresome task, 
So faithful in fulfilling Love's commands — 
Lord, give them rest, we ask. 

To that dear heart, 
Which ached and throbbed for me, her wayward boy, 
Do Thou, Christmas Child, the lot impart 
Of happiness and joy. 

Around her head, 
Until the weary watch of Life shall cease, 
Do Thou in e'er increasing radiance shed 
The holy light of peace. 


O'er hill and plain the wild tornado sweeps, 
Now boiling white with rage, now sable-browed ; 
In lurid lines its livid lightning leaps, 
In threat 'ning tones its thunder laughs aloud: 
The softest sigh of summer from the hills, 
That scarcely seems to move, so soft it goes, 
Wafts to our ears the song of whippoorwills 
And brings the smell of hyacinth and rose — 
Which brings us more of God? 

Far, far away in floods of ocean foam 

The mighty monsters wallow in the deep, 

And spouting waves from sea to sea they roam, 

Or fiercely on to deadly conflict leap : 

But from the depths where never breath of breeze 

Disturbs its tranquil rest, a single gem 

Gathers the beauty of the tropic seas 

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And decks with all their wealth earth's diadem — 
Which brings us more of God? 

The sages talk of whither and of whence, 

Of final destiny and primal cause, 

They learnedly discuss God's providence, 

The justice and wisdom of His laws : 

A prattling baby with curls of yellow hair 

Whose eyes reflect the blue of summer skies, 

Shows baby trust that never knew a care 

And simple confidence without disguise — 

Which brings us more of God? 


Do you remember, sister dear, the days of long gone by, 

The days of apple dumpling and huckleberry pie, 

Of sugar-plums and pickles and tarts and sweetened 

And biscuits full o' 'lasses that 'ud down your fingers 

And have you quite forgotten how the mother, dear, 

would say: 
"Take your box of goodies, children, and hustle out to 

How we set our little table out beneath the spreading 

And in happy childish fancy played our game of " Pa- 

We were never rough and wicked, never liked to quar- 
rel and fight, 

Or, perhaps, it's just my fancy as I meditate to-night; 

Man forgets his wicked deeds and brings the good alone 
to mind, 

That is why, I guess, the Golden Age lies in the days 

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B'lieve I do recall, for instance, putting sand in sugar- 

And we tied some lit fire-crackers to the cats' and pup- 
pies' tails; 

But we never were real cruel, wicked boys could never 

Us to mischief, for we'd rather play with our paper- 

When the summer days were over and the frost began to 

And the nights grew long and chilly, sister dear, do you 

How the little aching fingers with their cotton-picking 

Now were healed as if by magic, and upon the nursery- 
" Paper-folks" were played and fondled, till the mother 

fondly said: 
"Sleepy time for little folks," and packed us in our 

There to watch the fitful firelight where the pine-knot 
flames and smokes, 

Still too wide-awake for sleeping, thinking of our "pa- 

Oh, that land of paper dollies! Land of fancy's fitful 

Only place in earth or heaven where we have our wan- 
ton way ; 

Where the men are good and faithful and the women 
never lie, 

Where the children are obedient and the babies never 

Where there is no doctor's "nasty stuff" to put you 
'neath the sod, 

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And you have your prayers all answered, since you are 

your own dear god, 
Where the troubles all are "make-believe" and even 

quarrels are jokes, 
The land of childhood's Eden, where we played at 


And to-day your baby brother sits alone so far away 
Dreaming of his playmate sister and his mother, now 

so gray: 
'Bound your feet are children playing — all save one so 

young and fair 
That you buried 'neath the daisies on the hill-side over 

there ; 
You have learned the joys and sorrows that around the 

hearthstone fall, 
Joys of life and home and love, and I — well, I have 

missed 'em all, 
As I think of you and mother and of them, there's 

something chokes 
And I wish I were a child again a-playing "paper-folks." 

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The Author. — Cornelia Phillips Spencer was born in 
Harlem, N. Y., in 1825, and was only about a year old 
when her father, Dr. James Phillips, moved to the Univer- 
sity of North Carolina to become Professor of Mathe- 
matics. In 1857 she was married to James M. Spencer, 
of Alabama. Being left a widow with only one child, 
a daughter, she returned to Chapel Hill and made 
her home at the University, and her virile mind, fine 
judgment and broad culture, made her home the chief 
intellectual center of the University. Her skill as an 
artist was very great and some of her sketches are rare 
treasures among her friends and admirers. Her genius 
as a writer wielded the greatest influence. It is probable 
that no contemporary North Carolinian exercised more 
influence than did Cornelia Phillips Spencer. The horrors 
of reconstruction and its influence on the University gave 
her a great theme, and it was a great woman that arose 
to the occasion and sent a burning message to the man- 
hood of the State. The University was closed and it was 
her pen, more than any other's, that made a new and 
greater University possible. Her "Last Ninety Days of 
the War" is a vivid and strong picture of those terrible 
times. She was also the author of a history of North 
Carolina that was widely used in the public schools of the 
State. But her greatest activity found expression in the 
newspapers of the day and in personal letters. Her 
daughter was married to James Lee Love, of Gastonia, 
now Professor of Mathematics at Harvard. The last 
several years of her life were spent at Cambridge with 
her daughter. She died March 11, 1908, and her remains 
were brought back to Chapel Hill and buried by the side 
of her father's. The State Normal and Industrial College 
honored the woman and itself when it dedicated one of 
its buildings to her. 


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Note. — The University of North Carolina, one of the oldest 
universities of the South, was opened to students in 1794. 
This poem was written for the Centennial celebration of the 
opening of this institution. 

Come forth with your garlands and roses, 

Entwined with the Laurel and Bay, 
All that fair Carolina encloses 

Be yours this festival day. 
All hail! to our glorious old Mother, 

Her century's crown is complete, 
With loyalty due to no other, 

Our homage we lay at her feet. 

Tho' dimly her morning unfolded, 

And tempests oft darkened her sky, 
Still, to all the true hearts she has moulded, 

Her colors in radiance fly; 
Still she welcomes her sons to her portals, 

Her cloisters re-echo their tread, 
While a witnessing cloud of immortals 

Drop honor and strength on her head. 

All that Love and Religion have taught us, 

All that Freedom and Culture bestow, 
All renown that our Heroes have brought us, 

To her century's vigil we owe. 
Pond memory recalls her gray Teachers 

Intent on their labor of love, 
Her Poets, her Statesmen, her Preachers 

In Temple, and Forum, and Grove. 

Ye sons of fair Science still cherish 

A spark from the Spirit Divine, 
Ne'er a hope of our Country shall perish 

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Wherever his watch-fires shine. 
For oft as a noble endeavor 

Point out Where our brothers have trod, 
To His altars we trace the fair river 

That gladdens the city of God. 

Long, long may this fountain be flowing, 

Carolina be honored and blest, 
The lights on this Hill-top be glowing, 

While centuries pass to their rest. 
Then Hail! to our glorious old Mother, 

Allegiance we pledge her anew, 
With homage we pay to no other, 

All Hail to the White and the Blue ! 


Note. — A tribe of Cherokee Indians lives in Jackson and 
Swain counties. Many of our rivers, counties and towns have 
Indian names. 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

The race of Indian braves ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

Prom off our crested waves; 

That 'mid the forests where they roamed 
There rings no hunter's shout; 

Yet their names are on our waters : 
Ye can not wash them out. 

Their memory liveth on our hills, 

Their baptism on our shore; 
Our everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

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'Tis heard where Swannanoa pours 

Its crystal tide along; 
It sounds on Nantahala's shores, 

And Yadkin swells the song; 

Wher'er the lordly Roanoke sweeps, 
The Indian name remains; 

And swift Catawba proudly keeps 
The echo of its strains. 

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The Author. — Henry Jerome Stockard, son of Mary 
Johnson and James Qibbs Stockard, was born in Chatham 
County, September 15, 1858. His grandfather Stockard 
was a captain in the War of 1812 and his great-grand- 
father was a soldier in the Revolution. His father was a 
farmer and lumber dealer, who died, however, when 
Henry Jerome was only twelve years of age and his edu- 
cation was directed by his mother. He was educated at 
Elon College and the University, receiving the degree of 
Master of Arts from the former institution. After com- 
pleting his college course he entered the teaching profes- 
sion. He was principal of Graham Academy, County 
Superintendent, Assistant Professor of English at the 
University, Professor at Fredericksburg (Va.) College, 
Professor of Latin at Peace Institute and until very re- 
cently was President of that institution. 

The genius of the poet appeared early and developed 
rapidly, and for many years he has been a contributor 
to the leading magazines of the country. Some of his 
poems are found in Stedman's "American Anthology,' ' in 
"Representative Sonnets by American Poets/ ' and in the 
"Songs of the South.' ' He has published one volume of 
his poems under the title "Fugitive Lines.' ' Another vol- 
ume, "A Study in Southern Poetry," containing the best 
selections of Southern poems edited by him, was prepared 
for use as a text-book. 


Note. — Appomattox was the scene of the last battle of the 
Civil War and the surrender of General Lee. General Bryan 
Grimes, of North Carolina, at the command of General John 
B. Gordon, of Georgia, participated in this last charge of the 
Confederacy. This poem was written by request and was read 


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at the unveiling of the monument erected by North Carolina 
at Appomattox, April 10, 1905, in honor of her aons who made 
there this last charge. 

Scarred on a hundred fields before, 
Naked and starved and travel-sore, 

Each man a tiger, hunted, 
They stood at bay as brave as Huns — 
Last of the Old South 's splendid sons, 
Planked by ten thousand shotted guns, 

And by ten thousand fronted. 

Scorched by the cannon's molten breath, 
They'd climbed the trembling walls of death 

And set their standards tattered: — 
Had charged at the bugle's stirring blare 
Through bolted gloom and godless glare 
From the dead's reddened gulches, where 

The searching shrapnel shattered. 

They formed — that Carolina band — 
With Grimes, the Spartan, in command, 

And, at the word of Gordon, 
Through splintered fire and stifling smoke — 
They struck with lightning's scathing stroke, — 
Those doomed and desperate men — and broke 

Across that iron cordon. 

They turned in sullen, slow retreat — 
Ah ! there are laurels of defeat — 

Turned, for the chief had spoken ; 
With one last shot hurled back the foe, 
And prayed the trump of doom to blow, 
Now that the Southern stars were low 

The Southern bars were broken. 

Sometime the calm, impartial years 
Will tell what made them dead to tears 

Of loved ones left to languish ; — 
What nerved them for the lonely guard, 

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• For cleaving blade and mangling shard, — 
What gave them strength in tent and ward 
To drain the dregs of anguish. 

But the far ages will propound 

What never sage hath lore to sound ; — 

Why, in such fires of rancor, 
The God of love should find it meet 
For Him, with Grant as sledge, to beat 
On Lee, the anvil, at such heat, 

Our nation's great sheet-anchor. 


Note. — The Eagle is symbolic of the American nation. The 
first stanza tells of its beginning the second of its struggle, 
and the third of the domain. From Shasta in the Rocky 
Mountain he guards the Pacific slope, and from Mitchell in 
the Appalachian chain he guards the Atlantic. 

Brooded on the crags, his down the rocks, 
He holds the skies for his domain ; 

Serene, he preens where thunder shocks, 
And rides the hurricane. 

The scream of shells is in his shriek ; 

As swords, his wings whiz down the air; 
His claws, as bayonets, gride ; his beak 

As shrapnel-shards, doth tear. 

Where Shasta shapes its mighty cone, 
Where Mitchell heaves into the skies. 

Silent he glares, austere, alone, 
With sun-out-staring eyes. 


Note. — Point Lookout, one of the Capes along the coast, is 
south of the dreaded Hatteras, and nearly opposite Beaufort. 

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Its lighthouse can be seen at times from Beaufort. Here the 
coast is very dangerous, but not so dangerous as the Hatteras 

Upon these dreary bars the ocean rolls. 

Billow on billow and f orevermore ! 
Age, after age, with unremitting roar, 
They curl and break and churn on sands and shoals. 
What means that deep- voiced dolorous monotone! 

Chants it a dirge o'er its unnumbered dead? 

O'er empires that once flourished where its bed 
Now slopes to depths unfathomed and unknown? 
Or, haply, is't a monster's vicious tones, 

Crouching to spring upon its prey, I hear — 

Waiting to swallow up earth's mighty thrones, 
And raise new worlds from its own gloomy sphere? 
Or sobs, perchance, man's kingdoms to efface. 
Only to whelm again some distant race? 


The hour is late, the fire is low, 

And eery winds from northland's snow 

Around the eaves are moaning; 
A spirit roams the world to-night 
From land to land, in silent flight, 
As fast as flies the dawning. 

The snow is tinkling through my blinds ; 
The owls, hid in the hooded pines, 

Their dolorous greetings render; 
Back into other years I steal — 
A child, at mother's knee I feel 
That gracious hand and tender! 

I hear — and how my bosom swells — 
I hear the neighboring village bells, 
Blent with the tempest's booming; 

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Out in the whirling snow I hear 
The muffled tramp of nimble deer — 
Old Santa Claus is coming! 

The rockets mount with trails of fire 
O'er roof and elm and lofty spire — 

Up, up to skyward winging; 
Thank God for Christmas! Man ne'er grows 
So old but that he loves the snows, 

And bells of Christmas ringing! 


No chill benumbed his spirits when wintry skies 
Above his tattered tents brooded so gray; 
He saw not the dense wilderness that lay 

Bound him, nor death that lurked in many a guise. 

Beyond those years with clear, prophetic eyes 
He gazed into the future far away, 
And saw a puissant land whose perfect day 

Lies veiled yet in the unborn centuries. 

For this he faced the f oeman, and alas ! 
Felt what was far more keen than f oeman '& steel — 
Such stings of calumy as never heal ; — 
Nor ever once in his great soul dreamed he 

That while the world's long generations pass 
All tongues should name him Father of the Free ! 


Note. — Sir Walter Raleigh was the first English states- 
man to attempt a settlement in America. His first expedition 
landed on Roanoke Island. Here a fort called Fort Raleigh 
was built. In 1792, the capital of the State was fixed and 
named "Raleigh," in remembrance of "the citie of Raleigh," 
which was to have been established on Roanoke Island. In 
1896 a memorial stone was erected on Roanoke Island to mark 
the site where the old fort stood. Some years later when 
there was a manifestation of interest in the erection in the 

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capital city of the State of a monument to Sir Walter Raleigh, 
this poem was read, by request, at a meeting of the State Liter- 
ary and Historical Association. 

He is not greatest who with pick and spade 
Makes excavations for some splendid fane, 
Nor he who lays with trowel, plumb, and line 
Upon the eternal rock its base of stone ; 
Nor is he greatest who lifts slow its walls, 
Flutes its white pillars, runs its architrave 
And frieze and cornice, sets its pictured panes, 
And points its airy minarets with gold; 
Nor he who peoples angle, niche, and aisle 
With sculptured angels, and with symbol graves 
Column and arch and nave and gallery; 
These are but delvers, masons, artisans, 
Each working out his part of that vast plan 
Projected in the master builder's brain. 

And he who wakes the organ's soulful tones 

Faint far away, like those that haply steal, — 

The first notes of the song of the redeemed 

From out the spirit- world to dying ears ; 

Or rouses it in lamentations wild 

Of Calvary, or moves its inmost deeps 

With sobs and cryings unassauged that touch 

The heart to tears for unf orgiven sin : — 

He voices but the echo of that hymn 

Whose surges shook the greet composer's soul. 

Bold admirals of the vast high seas of dream 
With neither chart nor azimuth nor star, 
That push your prows into the mighty trades 
And ocean streams toward continents unknown; 
Brave pioneers that slowly blaze your way 
And set your cairns for peoples yet unborn 
Upon imagination's dim frontiers, — 
Ye are the makers, rulers of the world! 

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And so this splendid land to sunward laid, 
With opulent fields and many a winding stream 
And virgin wood, with stores of gems and veins 
Of richest ore ; with mills and thronging marts, 
The domain of the freest of the free, — 
'Tis but the substance of his dream, — the pure, 
The true, the generous knight who marked its bounds 
With liberal hand by interfusing seas. 

What though no sage may read the riddle dark 

Of Crotan, diffused through marsh and waste 

And solitude? Their valor did not die, 

But is incorporate in our civic life. 

They were of those who fought at Bannockburn ; 

Their vital spirits spake at Mecklenburg ; 

They rose at Alamance, at Bethel led, 

And steered at Cardenas straight through blinding 

shells ; 
They live to-day, and shall forever live, 
Lifting mankind toward freedom and toward God ! 

And he still lives, the courteous and the brave 

Whose life went out in seeming dark defeat. 

The Tower held not his princely spirit immured, 

But in those narrow dungeon walls he trod 

Kingdoms unlimited by earthly zones, 

And from its dismal gates passed unafraid 

To an inheritance beyond decay, 

Stored in the love and gratitude of man. 

He lives in our fair city, noble state, 

Puissant land — in all each hopes to be I 

He lives in noble words and splendid dreams, 

In strenuous actions and in high careers, 

An inspiration unto loftier things. 

Upon the scheme of ages man shall find 
Success oft failure, failure oft success, 
When he shall read the record of the years ! 

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The Author. — Robert strange was born in Virginia, 
^September 20, 1756. He was educated at Hampden Sid- 
ney College and then studied law. After being admitted 
to the bar, he settled in Fayetteville, N. C, and in 1821 
was elected to the General Assembly, where he served in 
1822-1823 and 1826. He was elected in 1826 Judge of the 
Superior Court, and held that place until 1836, when he 
was elected to the United States Senate. He continued a 
member of that body until 1840, when he resigned after 
refusing to obey the instruction of the North Carolina 
Legislature. On his return to Fayetteville he resumed 
his profession, and subsequently was elected Solicitor of 
the Fifth Judicial District. The degree of LL.D. was 
conferred on him by Rutgers College in 1840. 

Judge Strange wrote several poems. Ten of them are 
published in Mary Bayard Clarke's "Wood Notes.' ' He 
published also a novel entitled "Eoneguski; or, The Cher- 
okee Chief, ,, in which he preserved many of the traditions 
of the region in which he resided. 


There is a melody deep and abounding 

'Mid the strangely wrought chords of the heart ; 

The wind may not pass, but 'tis sounding 
A music unrivaled by art. 

At times 'tis the wailing of sorrow, 
From the depths of its being it brings; 

Again, wildest joy on the morrow 
Comes bursting away from its strings. 

The presence of each passing stranger 
May draw from its tissue a tone ; 

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That too often, alas ! there is danger 
May sound when that stranger is gone. 

Not e'en from the light breath of fashion 

It's music is wholly concealed; 
But alone to the warm touch of passion 

Will the heart its true melody yield. 

To Love — Love alone, is given 

Most exquisite music to make ; 
Such tones as re-echoed from Heaven 

The rapture of seraphs awake. 


At morn my children all scamper away, 

Their hearts full of hope and mirth, , 
To join with each other in life's wild play, 
Forgetful of kind Mother Earth. 

But hungry or thirsty they think of me, 

And turn to me often and o'er; 
While like a fond mother I open free 

My breast to the children I bore. 

And I nourish them there with fondest love 
And give them the strength of my heart, 

Till again they go forth and wildly rove, 
Nor sigh from their mother to part. 

All thoughtless of me, they pass the day, 

In business, in love, or in war ; 
Their senses absorbed in life's stirring play, 

They fancy the evening afar* 

But evening steals on with her twilight gloom, 
And Earth's weary offspring must rest; 

And one by one will my children come 
To sleep on their kind mother's breast. 

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The Author. — Frances Christine Fisher Tiernan, the 
daughter of Col. Chas. F. Fisher, was horn in Salisbury, 
N. C, July 5, 1846. She received her early instruction 
from a maiden aunt, Miss Christine Reid, and as soon as 
she was old enough was sent to St. Mary's College, Ral- 
eigh, North Carolina. But her education was completed 
under the instruction of her aunt. In 1870 she pub- 
lished her first novel, "A Question of Honor,' ' and it 
is still one of her most widely known books. In 1871 she 
published in Appleton's Journal a novel entitled "Morton 
House,' ' a story of Southern life. This novel, Miss Tier- 
nan considers her best since she gave to it her most care- 
ful work. In 1887 she married James M. Tiernan, of 
Maryland, and accompanied her husband to Mexico where 
Mr. Tiernan had large mining interests. There she col- 
lected material for her novel, "The Land of the Sun," 
and some Mexican stories, notably "The Pictures of Las 
Cruces," which appeared in Lippincott's Magazine, and 
was afterward translated into French and published in 
L' Illustration of Paris. After her husband's death in 
1898 Mrs. Tiernan made her home for a while in New 
York City, but later returned to Salisbury, N. C, where 
she now lives in the same house in which she was born. 
She has published in all about twenty novels. One of 
the best is "The Land of the Sky," the scene of which 
is laid in Western North Carolina. Though she never 
made the slightest claim whatever to being a poet, the few 
verses she has written are worthy of reproduction. In 
1909 Mrs. Tiernan was awarded the Laetare Medal by the 
University of Notre Dame, Indiana. This medal is given 
annually to some lay member of the Catholic Church for 
distinguished services in literature, art, science, or phil- 
osophy. This is the only instance when this medal has 
been awarded to a Southerner. Mrs. Tiernan 's pen name 
is "Christian Reid." 


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Note. — The Alabama was a war vessel owned by the Con- 
federate government. It was built in England in 18^7. Dur- 
ing the two years of her existence she captured sixty-six vessels. 
In 1864 a celebrated battle was fought off the French coast be- 
tween the Alabama and the federal Kearsarge, in which the 
Alabama was sunk. Her master was the famous Admiral 
Semmes. Every one who has ever read "Service Afloat" — and 
every Southerner should read it — will remember how Admiral 
Semmes cast his sword into the sea. 

Far away in foreign waters 

There was vengeance in the name, 
And terror to the trader 

In the ALABAMA'S fame: 
Far beneath the Southern heavens, 

And beneath the Northern stars, 
Did she bear unblenched the honors 

Of the Banner of the Bars ! 

Where the bright sea of the Tropics 

Lay a sheen of burning gold, 
Where the icebergs of the Arctics 

Gleamed amid the frigid cold, 
Where the coral islands clustered 

In the purple Indian calm, 
Where the Mexic mountains bore aloft 

Their coronals of palm: 

Where the Afric headlands towered 

O'er the ocean's broad expanse, 
Where the laughing southern waters kissed 

The sunny plains of France, 
Where'er a Union vessel 

Spread her canvas to the breeze, 
She did well to watch the coming 

Of the Ranger of the Seas! 

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She did well to read the warning 

Of the wrecks upon her path, 
Of the burning glow that lit the sky 

In sudden sign of wrath: 
She did well to reef her outspread sails 

And yield the hopeless fight, 
When the staunchest rover of the sea 

Came bearing into sight! 

Long as the Southern heart shall thrill 

To deeds of deathless fame, 
So long shall live, in tale and song, 

The ALABAMAN name. 
Long shall the story still be told 

Of how she swept the seas, 
And flung the starlight of our flag 

To every ocean breeze! 

And honored long the Lion Heart 

That o'er her held command, 
All honor to the dauntless breast 

And ever fearless hand! 
Thrice honored, too, the sword that rests 

A thousand fathoms deep, 
Where surges foam and waters — 

And winds above it sweep ! 

Like a hero clad in armor, 

True to the very last, 
The ALABAMA died no death 

That could disgrace her past! 
The free child of the waters, 

She sank beneath the wave, 
And, with her flag still flying, found 

An unpolluted grave. 

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If I had known, loyal heart, 

When hand to hand we said farewell, 
How for all time our paths would part, 

What shadow o'er our friendship fell, 
I should have clasped your hand so close 

In warm pressure of my own, 
That memory still might keep its grasp, 

If I had known. 

If I had known, when far and wide 

We loitered through the summer land, 
What Presence wandered by our side, 

And o'er you stretched its awful hand, 
I should have hushed my careless speech, 

To listen well to every tone 
That from your lips fell low and sweet, 

If I had known. 

If I had known, when your kind eyes 

Met mine in parting, true and sad — 
Eyes gravely tender, gently wise, 

And earnest rather more than glad — 
How soon the lids would lie above, 

As cold and white as sculptured stone, 
I should have treasured every glance, 

If I had known. 

If I had known, from the strife 

Of fears, hopes, passions here below, 
Unto a purer, higher life, 

That you were called, friend, to go, 
I should have stayed all foolish tears, 

And hushed each idle sigh and moan, 
To bid you a last, long God-speed, 

If I had known. 

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If I had known to what strange place, 

What mystic, distant, silent shore, 
You calmly turned your steadfast face, 

What time your foosteps left my door, 
I should have forged a golden link 

To bind the heart, so constant grown, 
And keep it constant ever there, 

If I had known. 

If I had known that, until death 

Shall with his finger touch my brow 
And still the quickening of the breath 

That stirs with life's full meaning now, 
So long my feet must tread the way 

Of our accustomed paths alone, 
I should have prized your presence more, 

If I had known. 

-If I had known how soon for you 

Drew near the ending of the fight, 
And on your vision, fair and new, 

Eternal peace dawned into sight, 
I should have begged, as love's last gift, 

That you, before God's great white throne, 
Would pray for your poor friend on earth, 

If I had known. 

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Note. — The authorship of this poem is unknown. There is 
satisfactory evidence that it is not the work of Mrs. Mary 
Bayard Clarke, or Calvin H. Wiley, or Philo Henderson, to each 
of whom it has been accredited. The only known claim to its 
authorship was made anonymously in 1873 by a resident of 
Charleston, S. C, who was editor of a Southern magazine. 
The poem was written prior to 1864, at which time it had al- 
ready become well known. The Swannanoa is a tributary 
of the French Broad and was named by the Indians "The 
Beautiful." Note the following rivers it is compared with: 
Ashley of South Carolina, Hudson of New York, Susquehanna 
of Pennsylvania, Scioto of Ohio, and Juaniata of Pennsylvania. 

Swannanoa, nymph of beauty, 

I would woo thee in my rhyme, 
Wildest, brightest, loveliest river 

Of our sunny Southern clime ! 
Swannanoa, well they named thee, 

In the mellow Indian tongue ; 
Beautiful thou art, most truly, 

And right worthy to be sung. 

I have stood by many a river, 

Known to story and to song — 
Ashley, Hudson, Susquehanna, 

Fame to which may well belong ; — 
I have camp'd by the Ohio, 

Trod Scioto's fertile banks, 
Follow 'd far the Juaniata, 

In the wildest of her pranks, — 

But thou reignest queen for ever, 
Child of Appalachian hills, 

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Winning tribute as thou flowest, 
From a thousand mountain-rills. 

Thine is beauty, strength-begotten, 
Mid the cloud-begirded peaks, 

Where the patriarch of the mountains, 
Heav'nward for thy waters seeks. 

Through the laurels and the beeches, 

Bright thy silvery current shines, 
Sleeping now in granite basins, 

Overhung by trailing vines, 
And anon careering onward, 

In the maddest frolic-mood, 
Waking, with thy sea-like voices, 

Fairy echoes in the wood. 

Peaceful sleep thy narrow valleys, 

In the shadow of the hills, 
And thy flower-enamelled border, 

All the air with fragrance fills. 
Wild luxuriance, generous tillage, 

Here alternate meet the view, 
Every turn, through all thy windings 

Still revealing something new. 

Where, graceful Swannanoa, 

Are the warriors who of old 
Sought thee at thy mountain sources, 

Where thy springs are icy cold — 
Where the dark-browed Indian maidens, 

Who their limbs were wont to lave 
(Worthy bath for fairer beauty) 

In thy cool and limpid wave? 

Gone forever from thy borders, 
But immortal in thy name, 

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Are the red men of the forest; 

Be thou keeper of their fame ! 
Paler races dwell beside thee; 

Celt and Saxon till thy lands, 
Wedding use unto thy beauty — 

Linking over thee their hands. 

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The Author. — Robert Brank Vance, son of David Vance 
and Mira Margaret Baird, was born in Buncombe Coun- 
ty, April 24, 1828. His youngest brother was the distin- 
guished Zebulon Baird Vance. At twenty years of age 
he was elected clerk of court of common pleas and quar- 
ter session of Buncombe County and served in that 
capacity for eight years. On retiring from this office he 
engaged in merchandising at Asheville. But when the 
war between the states broke out, he organized a com- 
pany of soldiers and was unanimously elected colonel. 
He served in Tennessee, and was promoted to the rank 
of brigadier-general on account of his distinguished serv- 
ices at Cumberland Gap, Murfreesboro and other battles 
of East Tennessee. In one of his attempts to cross Smoky 
Mountains and aid General Longstreet he was captured 
by the enemy and confined first at Camp Chase and later 
at Port Delaware. On March 14, 1865, he was paroled 
and came South. 

In 1872 he was elected to represent his district in Con- 
gress, and he continued its representative for twelve years. 
In 1884 President Cleveland appointed him assistant com- 
missioner of patents. He was an active member of the 
Methodist Church and was several times elected to the 
General Conference. 

General Vance wrote a great deal for the press. Many 
of his verses were collected and published in a little vol- 
ume entitled "Heart-Throbs Prom the Mountains/ ' from 
which volume this selection is made. 

General Vance was twice married, first to Miss Harriet 
V. McElroy, and later to Miss Lizzie R. Cook. He died 
November 28, 1899. 


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Note. — Dr. Elisha Mitchell, a distinguished professor of the 
University of North Carolina, lost his life, June 27, 1857, while 
exploring one of the mountain peaks of Western North Caro- 
lina. He was buried on the summit of the mountain where a 
monument later was erected to his memory. The mountain 
was named Mitchell's Peak in his honor. 

On the highest peak of a mighty chain 

Of hill and mountain fastness, 
Where nature doth her primal rule maintain 

Amid their solemn vastness, 
There's a lonely grave that the mountain gave, 
Which the sorrowing moonbeams gently lave. 

No echoing sound of the city's hum 

Shall reach the peaceful sleeper; 
No note of joy or grief to him shall come 

Prom plow-boy or from reaper; 
But silent he'll sleep, while the ivies creep, 
And the angels their sacred vigils keep. 

The deafening peals of the thunder's voice 

Shall never break his dreaming, 
Though the tempests wild in their might rejoice 

Amid the lightning's gleaming; 
His rest still is deep on the mountain steep, 
Though his pupils mourn and his loved ones weep. 

The tremulous trills of the mother bird, 

As she sings her songs so lowly, 
Though a sweeter tone the ear never heard, 

Touch not a rest so holy ; 
For God keeps him there, in the upper air, 
Sleeping and waiting for the morning fair. 

The clustering blooms of the flowerets wild, 

Their fragrance sweet distilling, 
Though ever himself kind nature's fond child, 

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Breaks not the tryst he's filling; 
For God knows so swell the spot where he fell 
That nothing but Heaven can unlock the spell. 

The summer and autumn, they come and go, 

Old winter oft-times lingers, 
And spring rhododendrons after the snow 

Lift up their beautiful fingers; 
But changes may sweep over the land and the deep, 
Yet nothing disturbs his satisfied sleep. 

In Alma Mater's halls voices and tears 
May speak the heart's deep yearning, 

And oft to the eye Mount Mitchell appears 
When fancy's lights are burning; 

But the tolling bell and its mournful knell 

Shall bring him no more, for he resteth well. 

But a morn shall come, glorious morn ! 

When the trumpet's shrill sounding 
Shall reach every soul that ever was born, 

And life anew be bounding; 
And God in His might, from the mountain height, 
Shall wake His servant to the wondrous sight. 


Note. — Just after the traveler passes the celebrated Painted 
Rock, at the border of North Carolina and Tennessee, he will 
find the train passing between two stupendous mountains, the 
French Broad River between the two. Standing on the rear 
platform, he will see, near the top of the mountain, what ap- 
pears to be a great white cross, which, according to the author 
of this poem, seems a way-mark for heaven. 

As down the dashing river 

The travler speeds his way, 
He sees upon the mountain 

Above him far away, 
Just where the rock is riven 

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By the bursting of a flood, 
On that awful height, a cross, snow-white, 
To point his soul to God. 

Down there the boiling waters 

Arise, and foam, and swell, 
And in a voice of thunder 

They startle all the dell ; 
But high above the rushing, 

Just near the peaceful sky, 
That most holy sign of a love divine 

Swells out to greet the eye. 

And while the eye is gazing 

Upon that sign so sweet, 

He forgets the rushing river 

Where the mad waters meet ; 
And his soul is filled with gladness 
That in his mountain land, 
With a matchless grace, for the human race, 
The Lord holds out His hand. 

I love thee, racing river, 

I love each lofty crag; 
I love the mighty mountains, 

The home of the fleet stag; 
But dearer to my vision, 

And sweeter to my heart, 
Is the land of the leal, so dear, so real, 

Where loved ones never part. 

Roll on, thou rushing river! 

Stand up, ye mountains tall! 
And rock, and hill, and canon 

Grace well this earthly ball; 
And white cross on the mountain, 

Stand out on the high peak, 
And with thy true hand point to the sweet land 

Which trav'lers all should seek! 

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The Author. — George M. Whiting was born in Raleigh, 
N. C, February 9, 1842, and served in the Confederate 
Army as captain of Company C, Twenty-seventh North 
Carolina Regiment. He was wounded and captured at 
the Battle of Gettysburg, and later confined in the mili- 
tary prison on Johnson's Island, N. Y., where he con- 
tracted consumption from which he died a few years af- 
ter the war on his twenty-eighth birthday, February 9, 
1870. The verses given below were inscribed on the 
Confederate Monument erected in Oakwood Cemetery at 
Raleigh in 1870. Captain Whiting was the son of Sey- 
mour W. Whiting, author of the poem " Alamance,' ' else- 
where given in this work. 


Sleep! warrior, sleep! the struggle, 

The battle-cry, is hushed; 
Our standards have been lowered, 

Our blooming hopes been crushed. 

Sleep ! for thy name is cherished 

By the bravest and the best; 
And soldiers' hearts and woman's love 

Are with thee in thy rest. 


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The Author. — Seymour W. Whiting, a descendant of the 
old Whiting and Bradford families of Massachusetts, and 
the author of Alamance and other poems, was born in 
Stratford, Conn., in 1817. He moved to Raleigh, N. C., at 
the age of nineteen. He showed unusual ability at a very 
early age, and after the old Raleigh and Gaston Railroad 
was built he become its treasurer under the presidency of 
George W. Mordecai. He was also associated with Mr. 
Mordecai in the management of the old state bank. He 
married Miss Hannah Stewart, of Raleigh. Although he 
died, January 2, 1855, at the early age of thirty-eight, his 
business career and literary works left him fame. 


Note. — The battle of Alamance was fought, May 16, 1771, 
between an organized force known as the "Regulators' 1 and the 
troops of the colony under the leadership of Governor Tryon. 
The trouble arose over the unjust method of collecting taxes. 
The scene of the battle is located in Alamance County. The 
"Regulators" were defeated, but they put an end to the unjust 
practices of the King's officer. A monument was erected on 
the old battlefield in 1880. 

No stately column marks the hallowed place 
Where silent sleeps, unurn'd, their sacred dust — 

The first free martyrs of a glorious race, 

Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust. 

The rustic ploughman, at the early morn, 

The yielding furrow turns with heedless tread, 

Or tends with frugal care the springing corn 
Where tyrants conquer M and where heroes bled. 

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Above their rest the golden harvest waves, 
The glorious stars stand sentinel on high ; 

While in sad requiem near their turfless graves 
The winding river murmurs mourning by. 

No stern ambition nerved them to the deed, 
In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die; 

The first to conquer, or the first to bleed, 

God, and their country's right, their battle-cry. 

But holier watchers here their vigils keep, 
Than storied urn or monumental stone ; 

For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep, 
And Plenty smiles above their bloody home. 

Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame, 
And, as their country's glories still advance, 

Shall brighter blaze o'er all the earth thy name, 
The first-fought field of Freedom — Alamance. 


I come ! I come ! ye have looked for me long, 
Ye meet me with laughter, and greet me with song; 
Bright eyes are beaming with gladness and mirth, 
Soon shall their brightness be dim upon earth. 

Ye are changed ! Ye are changed ! since I met with you 

And a blight o 'er the bloom of your spirits hath passed ; 
Ye have given the rose for the lily's pale breath; 
Bright ones of earth! ye have loked upon death. 

I return with the pale delicate flowers, 

And the birds that have wandered far over the sea ; 

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But I bring not the loved and the lost to your bowers ; 
They have faded from earth, and return not with me. 

Where are the gentle, the lovely, the fair, 
Whose clustering locks were untouched by care? 
The laughing eye in whose radiance lay 
No shadowy semblance of dull decay? 

They are gone ! they are gone with the parted year, 
Ye have strewn pale flowers on the lowly bier. 
Farewell ! for I haste on my gossamer wing, 
And the loved ones ye mourn for return not with spring. 

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The Author. — Miss Sue M. Whitaker, formerly a teach- 
er, is a native of Halifax County, N. C. Her father, Rev. 
G. A. T. Whitaker, was a minister of the Methodist Prot- 
estant faith. He served charges and did missionary work 
in many counties of North and South Carolina, the chil- 
dren receiving their education in schools wherever the 
family happened to be located. Misses Sue and Mattie 
Whitaker, sisters, now live in Raleigh, which has been 
their home since 1898. The first named has written a 
number of short poems of merit. The one here given was 
first published in the Charlotte Observer about eight years 
ago. Its true poetic note caught the attention of many 
readers in North Carolina and other States. One of these, 
himself a distinguished writer, referred to " Finis' ' as 
1 'one of the finest poems we have ever read," declaring 
that "it is a poem, although it has but three verses, for it 
conveys its idea complete." 


What, here so soon? 

Sunset and night? 
Why, I have work to do that needs the noon 

And day's broad light! 
See ! On the palette, there, the colors are but set, 

The canvas still unwet 

And it is night ! 

How shall it rise — 

That heavenly strain — 
On heavenly wings, to woo the listening skies 

To earth again f 
While lies the violin here, untouched, unstrung; 

Its sweetest song unsung 

And it is night ! 

• 154 

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How sweet 'twould be — 

My work all done — 
To sit at eve, my threshold on, and see 

Stars, one by one, 
Flash into the dark Heaven. Oh, happy rest ! 

My folded hands, how blest 

But — 'tis already night! 


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A Christmas Memory (Stock- 

ard), 132 
A Christmas Prayer (Spence), 

A Greeting to Grandfather 

Mountain (Dickson), 32 
A Jolly Old Man (Cade), 20 
Alamance (Whiting), 151 
Appomattox (Note), 129 
A Prayer (Dickson), 34 
Armfield, Lucile (Quoted), v 
A Song of Autumn (Lyle), 92 
A Song of the Road (Lyle), 95 
At Sea (McNeill), 103 
Away Down Home (McNeill), 

Aycock, Charles Brantley 

(Note), 37 

Beauty or Power (Spence), 

Blackboard the Corsair (Hay- 
wood), 72 
Boner, John Henry, 5 
Brimley, Herbert Hutchinson, 


Cade, Baylus, 18 
Cape Hatteras (Note), 83 
Caribee (Note), 84 
Carolina, Our Pride (Harring- 
ton), 62 
Chancellorsville ( Gillespie ) , 

Christian Reid, 138 
Clarke, Mary Bayard, 23 


Clingman, Nixon Poindexter, 

Contents, xi 

Curtis, Mrs. A. W. (Quoted), 

Dan River (Note), 104 
Dare, Virginia (Note), 118 
Dickson, Sallie O. H., 32 
Do We Forget? (Dickson), 33 
Dr. Mitchell's Grave (Vance), 

Durham, Plato Tracy, 35 

Earth's Lullaby to 3er Chil- 
dren (Strange), 137 
Editor's Preface, ix 
Ellenwood, H. S., 39 
Eventide (Gillespie), 55 

Finis (Whitaker), 154 

Fordham (Note), 10 

French Broad River (Note), 

Fuller, Edwin Wiley, 41 

Gaston, Alexander F., 45 
Gaston, William, 46 
Gee, Pattie Williams, 48 
Gillespie, Joseph H., 52 
God's Love (Gee), 51 
Grandfather Mountain (Note), 

Greaves, Charles Luther, 56 

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Harrell, William Bernard, 60 
Harrington, Thomas Watts, 62 

Hatteras (Holden), 82 
Haywood, Marshall DeLancey, 

He Came and Went (Rock- 
well), 109 
Hecla (Note), 82, 83 
Hill, Theophilns Hunter, 76 
Ho! For Carolina! (Harrell), 

Holden, Joseph William, 82 
Hunting Muscadines (Boner), 


Indian Names (Spencer), 127 
In Memoriam (Clingman), 28 
In the Lighthouse at Point 

Lookout (Stockard), 131 
Introduction, 1 

Johnny's Story (Lindesay), 91 

Lee's Statue (Note), 36 
Lehman, Emma A., 86 
Life's Victors (Lyle), 96 
Lindesay, Marie Batterham, 

Lines to the Ladies' Memorial 

Association of Wilmington 

(Fuller), 42 
Lines to the Old North State 

(Clarke), 23 
Lumber River (Note), 101 
Lyle, Samuel Harley, Jr., 92 

Macon, Nathaniel (Note), 114 
Marriage of the Sun and Moon 

(Ellen wood), 39 
Mater Mea, Carolina (Gee), 

McNeill, John Charles, 97 

Milk-White Doe, the Vision of 

(Sledd), 118 
Minstrels of the Pasquotank 

(Greaves), 57 
Moore's Creek Bridge, Battle 

of (Note), 69 
Morehead, Abraham Forest, 

Morn and Eve (Lyle), 92 
M. W. Ransom (McNeill), 99 

Night (Rockwell), 108 
North Carolina to Charles B. 
Aycock (Durham), 37 

October (McNeill), 100 

Painted Rock (Note), 148 
Paper-Folks (Spence), 122 
Peace (Lindesay), 90 
Pettigrew, James Johnston 

(Note), 43 
Pilot Mountain (Note), 111 
Poe's Cottage at Fordham 

(Boner), 10 
Point Lookout (Note), 131 

Queen Flora's Opening Day 
(Lehman), 86 

Racing Water (Clarke), 26 
Randolph, John (Note), 113 
Regret (Tiernan), 141 
Roanoke (Shepard), 113 
Roanoke River (Note), 113 
Rockwell, James Chester, vii, 

Royal Shoal (Note), 16 

She is My Queen (Rockwell), 

Shepard, James Biddle, 111 

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Sir Walter Raleigh (Stock- 

ard), 133 
Sledd, Benjamin, 115 
Song (Lindesay), 89 
Song of Spring (Whiting), 152 
Song of the Butterfly (Hill), 

Spence, Hersey Everett, 120 
Spencer, Cornelia Phillips, 125 
Stanzas (Gillespie), 52 
Stockard, Henry Jerome, 129 
Strange, Robert, 136 
Sunburnt Boys (McNeill), 101 
Swannanoa (Unknown), 143 

The Alabama (Tiernan), 139 
The Bells of Heaven (Fuller), 

The Bells of Trinity (Dur- 
ham), 35 
The Children (Sledd), 115 
The Dream of Lee and Lin- 
coln (Durham), 36 
The Eagle (Stockard), 131 
The Flint-Lock Rifle (Hay- 
wood), 69 
The Gander (Harrington), 65 
The Garden of Death (Dur- 
ham), 38 
The Genius of Dan (More- 
head), 105 
The Hills of Dan (Morehead), 

The Last Charge at Appomat- 
tox (Stockard), 129 
The Light'ood Fire (Boner), 5 
The Mammoth (Brimley), 12 
The Moon-Loved Land (Bo- 
ner), 9 
The Mountain Cross (Vance), 

The Music of the Heart 
(Strange), 136 

The Mystery of the Woods 
(Sledd), 116 

The Old North State (Gas- 
ton), 46 

The Open Fire (McNeill), 102 

The Pilot (Shepard), 111 

The Poet's Story (Rockwell), 

The Royal Terns of Royal 
Shoal (Brimley), 16 

The Shout of a King (Greaves), 

The Snow (Lehman), 88 

The Song of the Buccaneer 
(Lyle), 93 

The Star Above the Manger 
(Hill), 79 

The Sunbeam (Hill), 78 

The Sunflower (Fuller), 43 

The University's Centennial 
(Spencer), 126 

The "Valley and Shadow" 
(Gillespie), 53 

The Vision of the Milk-White 
Doe (Sledd), 118 

The Volunteers (Gaston), 45 

The Wanderer Back Home 
(Boner), 7 

The Wolf (Boner), 8 

The Wraith o f Roanoke 
(Sledd), 119 

Tiernan, Frances Fisher, 138 

'Tis Springtime in the Wood- 
lands (Brimley), 14 

To a Mocking-Bird (Harring- 
ton), 68 

To a Snow-Bird (Greaves), 56 

To a Wood -Lark (Harring- 
ton), 67 

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Under the Pines (Fuller), 41 
United (Sledd), 117 
Unknown, 143 

Vance, Robert Brank, 146 

Virginia Dare (Note), 118 

Waiting (Cade), 18 
Warrior, Sleep! (Whiting), 

Washington (Stockard), 133 
What is Worth While? (Linde- 

say), 91 
Where Fairies Play (Lyle), 94 
Whitaker, Sue M., 154 
Whiting, George Mordecai, 

Whiting, Seymour Webster, 

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This book is under no circumstances to be 
taken from the Building 

m OCT I 9 1? 


va i f 









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Digitized by CjOOQIC 



Digitized by CjOOQIC